Afterglow
by AriaAdagio
Summary: Having met Michael Demiurgos twice, now, Chloe has met him two more times than she'd like. Which is why she's less than thrilled when he starts soliciting her for information about the human race. But all is not as it seems, and as Chloe and Lucifer face new trials in their deepening relationship, Michael's repeated intrusions become curiouser and curiouser. ATWL sequel. [COMPLETE]
1. Choice Millionaire

**_Afterglow (Choice Millionaire)_**

 **Author's Notes:**

This is a 6 chapter piece that serves as a follow-up to _And There Was Light_. If you haven't read ATWL ... you're probably going to be pretty confused about some things in this story, particularly regarding the Demiurge mythology and Michael himself. You can sure as heck try to read this as a standalone, but I don't really recommend it. You've been warned.

This started as one scene where Michael pops into Chloe's car to ask about cake. Given the positive response to the scene on my Tumblr when I posted it, I decided to write a short story to explain it. Except the short story ended up being a freaking 30k word novella. Isn't that fun when that happens? ;p

I hope you guys enjoy this. I had a lot of fun writing it, particularly the humor, which I didn't have as much of a chance to use in ATWL, as I did in this fic.

Thank you so much to my lovely beta readers, Pellaaearian and Wollfgang, for helping me polish this story. If you haven't read either of their stories, might I recommend checking those out next? :)

Chapter title credit goes to Poets of the Fall.

Cheers!

* * *

Lucifer lies along the length of her, naked, singularly intent.

"Is this your favorite?" he croons, dragging the strawberry lazily around her navel, meandering along her torso, through the gap in her cleavage, along her throat and chin, to her mouth. A wooden tray covered with cuts of fresh fruit and still warm croissants rests beside the bed.

This is the porniest breakfast Chloe's ever eaten.

"I like blueberries, too," she says as she bites off the tip. The strawberry bursts in her mouth as soon as she closes her teeth on it. The sweetness is divine. "And … raspberries."

"Mmm," he says, and then he dips low, licking along the same line the strawberry traveled.

"What's **your** fav-?" She doesn't have a chance to finish her question as he captures her mouth with his own and slips his hand between her legs. She moans against his lips. His body is a line of warmth against her. Her world in this moment doesn't extend beyond the bed.

His eyes are dark with hunger as he pulls away, but only to watch her as she unravels for him. "Oh, my Gggh-fuck," she can't help but moan as he plays her like his violin. **Fuck**. "I mean …."

He laughs, dark and throaty, fingers stroking. "We really must fix your compulsive exultations to you-know-who." He kisses her. Once. Twice.

"I've said it my whole life," she replies breathlessly. "I can't help it."

His smile is a show of teeth. "Perhaps … you require correction." He swirls his thumb in lazy circles between her legs, and she can't help but push into his hand. "I'm good at correction," he continues as he brings her to the cusp. To the cliff. So close to the edge that she can't stop herself from raking her nails down his chest in the vague hope of grabbing onto something. "I'm good at a lot of things."

"Oh, my **Go** -" He pulls his fingers away, eyes gleaming, and she kicks the mattress in frustration. "-ooh-no."

"Case in point," he purrs.

She laughs, unsatisfied, dying a slow death. "Come **on**!"

"Oh, you will come," he tells her. "Coming is entirely the point, after all. But … not just yet."

"What," is all she has a chance to gasp. He gives her a little button press, just enough to keep her dangling at the pinnacle. So close, and yet … not. "Holy mother of … **LUCIFER.** "

"Better." His mischievous grin widens as he spares a glance at his watch. "Ever heard of edging, darling?" He kisses her. "Shall I give you the tour? It's-"

A familiar ringtone pops the bubble she's been luxuriating in. Her phone vibrates loudly as it skips across her nightstand an inch and smacks into the spine of the book she's been reading. She winces at the intrusion.

"Bloody hell," Lucifer grumbles, mirth bleeding away. "What's **he** calling about?"

"Probably Trixie." Chloe sighs and rolls to make a grab for the phone before it leaps onto the floor. At least, Lucifer didn't tell her to let it ring, this time. He's learning. She hits the little green phone symbol and raises the speaker to her ear. "Dan, what's up?"

"… Mommy?" says a teeny tiny warbling voice on the other end of the line.

Lucifer's irritation shifts to concern as he inches closer across the bedspread. "Is it the spawn?"

Chloe's heart clenches. Trixie's tone is one no mother could ever mistake. All thoughts of orgasms and edging and naked Lucifer evaporate out of Chloe as though her brain were a teakettle set to boil. Pushing Lucifer away as she sits up, she grips the phone so hard her knuckles hurt. "What is it, babe? What's wrong?"

Lucifer's concerned expression becomes an alarmed one.

Trixie bursts into tears.

"Baby, where are you?" Chloe demands, already out of bed, rifling through her drawers for clean clothes.

Trixie replies, but the only words Chloe can glean in the distorted, wailing, grieving mess are Daddy and ambulance and prayed and something that sounds an awful lot like "die" but who knows and Chloe's trying not to panic and-

"Yes, hello, Ms. Lopez," Chloe hears Lucifer saying in the background, murmuring into his own cellphone. "I need the department's assistance in locating Daniel's cellphone. I believe it may be urgent."

Chloe gives Lucifer a grateful look before she returns to the task of soothing her daughter into some semblance of coherence.

* * *

With persistence and patience, Chloe manages to glean that Dan had been feeling sick and tetchy all day yesterday, and then collapsed early this morning. Thanks to Lucifer's quick thinking, before Trixie can even warble that she called 911, Ella has the address of the hospital where Trixie and Dan ended up.

"Collapsed?" Chloe asks Trixie from the passenger seat as Lucifer slices through traffic. "Collapsed **how**?"

"He fell," Trixie sobs.

Chloe wants to ask for more details. But all she can hear at this point are Trixie's high-pitched gasps for breath as she fights with her grief. And then the call drops when they drive under an overpass, and Chloe can't get Trixie to answer the fucking phone again. Damn it.

A horn honks, and Lucifer jams on the brakes, barely avoiding a collision.

"Lucifer," Chloe snaps as she picks herself up off the seatbelt, "if you kill us on the way there, you're only going to make her cry **more**."

"Apologies," he replies through clenched teeth as the other car clears out of the way.

He lifts his foot off the brake, and they proceed at something almost resembling the speed limit.

"I'm sure Dan's fine," she says. She rubs her tired, hurting eyes, trying not to think too hard, yet, about what situation might be greeting her at the hospital. "Collapsing isn't necessarily dire. It could just be exhaustion. Or dehydration. Or …."

"Yes, he has been working hard, as of late, what with his reinstatement to Detective," Lucifer says in a neutral tone. The way his fingers clench the steering wheel belies any sense of calm he's trying to exude, though.

She pinches the bridge of her nose and squeezes her eyes shut. "I'm sure he's fine," she repeats. "I mean, he's only forty, and he's more fit than most twenty-year-olds."

"Quite right," Lucifer adds.

 _But what if he's not fine?_ her tiny voice says.

A lump forms in her throat.

But she refuses to dive down that rabbit hole until the situation warrants it.

She **refuses**.

* * *

Neither Dan nor Trixie are anywhere to be seen when Chloe bursts through the sliding doors of the emergency room. A long line of malady and injury sufferers winds like a snake through the large room, and aside from a triage nurse, only one administrative assistant is present at the front desk to wrangle it. Heart pounding, Chloe steps into line behind a silver-haired man holding a dirty, bloody rag to his nose. She's resigned to the idea that she's not going to know what happened to Dan for at least another forty-five minutes, if that.

But then Lucifer says, "Allow me," quietly behind her, and he sashays past her toward the reception desk, grabbing her hand as he goes.

She lets herself be dragged along.

One flinty, devilish look from Lucifer, and not a single person in line complains when he cuts to the front.

The poor administrative assistant is a frazzled, overweight, rubicund man in his fifties - name tag: Edward Garland.

"Hello again," Ed says cautiously as he looks up at them.

"Yes, hello," Lucifer replies, "we're looking for Daniel Espinoza. He was brought in via ambulance sometime in the past hour."

At first, Ed looks like he's going to protest Lucifer's blatant line jump. But then Lucifer smiles. One of his flirty, devastating smiles that tends to flay alive any form of coherent thought. The kind that makes Chloe's heart skip and her breaths go shallow whenever he directs one at her.

"Has anyone ever told you how lovely your eyes are?" Lucifer says, charm dial turned up to eleven.

Ed blinks. "My … eyes?"

"Yes," Lucifer says with a nod, leaning closer, staring with singular, bespelled intensity. "They're gray in this light. Like the ocean fog in June. It's quite striking, really. I could just … dive right in."

What little of Ed that wasn't already red turns the color of a beet. He melts into an obsequious puddle of marshmallow fluff in the moments that follow.

"Dan …?" Ed says, trailing off with an awkward cough. He pulls at his shirt collar like he's trying not to choke. "Daniel Espinoza, you said?"

Lucifer nods. "Yes."

The keyboard clacks as Ed types something and then squints at his computer screen. "I'm sorry," he says after a pause. "I don't have any information on Mr. Espinoza, yet, other than that he was admitted. The doctors are probably still evaluating him."

"O … kay," Chloe says slowly. She swallows. "Well, can I see him?"

"Not until I get more information," Ed says. "I'm sorry."

"Surely, you can make an exception," Lucifer purrs beside her. "It's not as though the Detective would get in the way."

"Detective?" Ed says.

Lucifer nods. "Why, yes. My intrepid partner works for the LAPD. So, if there were ever a trustworthy reason to break the rules …."

Ed bites his lip. "I …." He directs a panicked look to the computer screen, and then back to Lucifer. "I can't. I'll get fired."

"Oh, come, now," Lucifer says. "You don't trust me to smooth things over?" A smile oozes across his face. "Tell me the name of your supervisor, and I'll work my many wiles, I assure you."

"I **can't** ," insists Ed.

Silence stretches for an interminable moment.

Lucifer's gaze darkens, and all hints of flirtatiousness bleed out of his expression as he abandons his catch-more-flies-with-honey approach. Menace starts to swell, thick in the air like a tornado spinning up. But Chloe rests her hand on his forearm, staving him off.

"Stop," she says, taking a hitching breath, and the maelstrom fades. "It's okay. I can wait." She can live without seeing Dan right now. At least, he's alive, and he's in good hands. What she really wants to know is, "Where is my daughter?"

Ed smiles. "Oh, she's …." His chair squawks as his ample weight shifts. He twists to point behind him, at the desk crammed into the corner, where some paper and colored pencils are spread. His smile melts away, replaced by an intense frown. "… Not … there anymore."

Chloe grinds her molars. "You lost my kid?"

"Lost is a **strong** word," Ed replies with a helpless shrug. "I'm sure she just went to the gift shop or … something."

Chloe slumps against the edge of the reception desk. He's right, of course. Trixie wouldn't wander off without a reason. She's too responsible for that. But Chloe's tired. And stressed. And she just wants to hug her baby.

Lucifer puts a warm hand on her shoulder and squeezes. "Go look, if you like. I'll wait here with Mr. Garland in case the spawn returns, or there's word about Daniel."

"Thanks," Chloe says, looking up at him. "I love you."

His gaze softens, though he doesn't reply. And with that, she sets off on her search.

* * *

" _It seems Daniel is suffering from something called kidney stones,"_ Lucifer texts her in a matter of minutes. " _Quite painful, I'm told, but not life threatening at present."_

Chloe blinks. " _What'd you do, threaten a doctor the second I left?"_

" _I didn't need to threaten him_ ," Lucifer replies.

" _What does *that* mean?_ " She suspects it means Lucifer proved himself scary enough that he didn't even need to utter an explicit threat. But ….

" _Have you found the offspring, yet?_ " Lucifer texts back, ignoring her.

She rolls her eyes and sighs. " _Yep,"_ she types. " _In the cafeteria."_

And with that, she dumps her phone back into her purse.

The cafeteria is large and warm and filled with the sounds of clinking dishes, crackling fryers, and conversing diners, though the smell of food does little to conceal the pervasive "hospital" smell. The table where Trixie is sitting resides in the corner, half-concealed by a hulking ficus. Trixie is leaking tears all over a plate covered in black crumbs. She clutches one dirty fork in her hand, and another dirty fork already rests on the plate. Stress eating at its finest.

"Hi, monkey," Chloe says as she sinks into the chair beside her daughter.

Trixie looks up. Her eyes are wet and rimmed with red, and her lips and chin are streaked with chocolate. She sniffs, and a fresh wave of tears spills down her face. "Mommy," she says, and she drops her fork onto the plate with a soft "tink" noise.

"Daddy's fine," Chloe says, pulling Trixie into her arms. "He's got kidney stones."

"What're those?"

"They're kinda like sand," Chloe says.

"In his **kidneys**?" Trixie says, making a face.

Chloe nods. "Yeah. And they hurt when they come out."

"Oh." Trixie sniffs. "Daddy fell. And he threw up. And he couldn't talk to me."

"Yeah," Chloe says, nodding again. "That happens sometimes when something really hurts. And I know it was really scary, but he'll be fine once the stones are all out. I promise." She kisses the top of Trixie's head and pulls her fingers through Trixie's messy hair. "You did great calling 911."

"I was really scared."

"I know," Chloe says. She pulls Trixie closer and rocks her back and forth, lump in her throat. "I know it was scary. But everything will be all right. I promise."

"That's what he said, too," Trixie mumbles into Chloe's neck.

"Who?" Chloe says. "Mr. Garland?"

Another chair pulls out from the table. Trixie perks up in moments despite her upset. "Lucifer!"

"Offspring," Lucifer says with a nod as he sits across from them. "Daniel will be fine, as I'm sure your mother's told you."

Trixie nods tearfully as she slides out of Chloe's arms, trudges around the table, and tries to climb into his lap. He makes a panicked noise, deep in his throat, and he scoots back an inch, quickly enough to make the metal feet of his chair squeal against the floor in protest. "Wouldn't you rather sit on your mother?" he says, looking down his nose at her.

Trixie shakes her head. "No. You."

"Come on, Trix, leave him alone," Chloe says dutifully, holding out her hands. "He doesn't want you in his lap. C'mere."

But that just makes him scowl and say, "Bloody …." As his voice trails away, his glare at Trixie and then at Chloe is a full on missile strike, like he's saying, _How_ _ **dare**_ _you play that card?_ Though Chloe's not sure what card he thinks she's playing.

Trixie pouts and says, "Please?" in a tiny, sad voice.

The fire in his eyes blooms into an apocalyptic mushroom cloud.

With a swift motion, he reaches forward and grabs a heaping pile of paper napkins from the table's dispenser. Then he guides Trixie in front of him and proceeds to roughly wipe down her face, and her hands, and anywhere he can see skin. "Really," he mutters as he swipes behind her ear. The napkin comes away with brown streaks. "How does one get icing **here** unless it's sex-related?"

Trixie accepts this treatment with a perplexed frown, shifting and swaying at Lucifer's forceful decon procedures. "You use icing for sex?" she says in a scandalized tone, nose wrinkling, and Chloe wants to die on the spot.

"Sometimes," he says.

"Lucifer …," Chloe cautions, glaring.

"What?" he says primly. "You want me to lie? She'll grow up repressed and die a lonely Puritan."

"What's a Puritan?" Trixie wants to know.

He ignores her and throws a whole pile of crumpled, ruined, dirty napkins onto the table. Makes one more disgusted _why do I let you do this to me_ sound. And then he pulls Trixie into his lap and says, "Happy?"

"Can I get more cake?" Trixie asks, sniffling.

Lucifer glowers. "Don't push your luck, urchin."

"What's an urchin?" she says.

"You are, clearly."

And she giggles despite her tears.

The sound is music. Chloe sighs as the tension drains out of her. "Let's go say hello to Daddy before we get more cake, okay?" she says, looking across the table at Lucifer.

He nods and mouths _Room 212._

Chloe continues, "And we'll go for ice cream and cake, after. You can have as much as you want."

"Yes," Lucifer says. There's a long pause. He gives Trixie an unhappy look, and he reluctantly adds, "… My treat."

"You mean, you'll come, too?" Trixie says in a small voice.

He sighs, visibly ruffled, like he doesn't enjoy being caught sentimentalizing, least of all with a "small human." Nevertheless, he replies, "I'm a Devil of my word, am I not?"

"You'll have cake?"

"I love me a good sugar rush," he replies, prompting another giggle.

Trixie seems to find the promise of future ice cream and cake an acceptable state of affairs and climbs off of him. They all rise to leave. Much to Lucifer's continued chagrin, Trixie grabs not just Chloe's hand, but his hand, too.

He looks at her fingers as they mash his knuckles together. "Must you, offspring?" he gripes, irritation pinching at the corners of his eyes, though his protest seems to be token more than anything else.

Trixie grins at him with a mouth full of teeth and says, "Uh huh."

"You're still … sticky."

Trixie gives him a helpless _I'd fix it if I could_ look.

Lucifer arches a judgy eyebrow at her, but the effect of his disdain is sabotaged by encroaching amusement. His lip twitches, and his eyes twinkle, like he might gift them with a genuine smile, but he doesn't. He looses a dramatic sigh instead, and he rolls his eyes. "Very well."

So, they walk up to the second floor together. Lucifer, Trixie, Chloe. All in a line, Trixie swinging like a happy monkey between them, Lucifer giving her irritated glances at regular intervals.

The Devil, a cake-loving eight-year-old, and a workaholic divorcee.

Probably the weirdest family on Earth.

But it works, Chloe thinks.

It works just fine.

* * *

Room 212 is a small shoebox of a room, barely big enough to fit the narrow hospital bed and all of the monitoring equipment. But at least the room is a solo unit, so Dan has some privacy, and at least it has a window, which some don't.

"Enjoying Mr. Blue, Daniel?" Lucifer says with a snort.

Trixie lies on the bed, curled up in Dan's arms, and Dan has lost the conversation … yet again. He blinks sluggishly, holds his hand limply in the air, and gives the snaking intravenous line a lazy smile. "I can see whyou do thistuff recraationly, maaaan," he says, the words stretched and not entirely formed. "I feel fan … fnast … fantastic."

"Um …," Dr. Weller says.

Chloe rolls her eyes. "Guys," she says, shooting a pointed look at Trixie, "let's not discuss this 'stuff,' now, okay?" She puts the word stuff in air quotes.

"Right," Dan says with a blink, "ssorry." He turns to Dr. Weller. "I don' do drugz." He points at Lucifer. "Only he doesz drugz."

"Not usually of the opioid variety," Lucifer pipes in. "They're all quite messy, after all. I prefer coke."

"I like Coke," Trixie says.

Chloe can only sigh. She gives Dr. Weller a look that she hopes reads as _I swear, I'm a qualified and sober parent; please, don't call CPS_. Lucifer, in a rare bout of empathy, jumps in with, "Offspring means the fizzy drink. Nothing untoward, I assure you."

"Riiight," Dr. Weller says slowly.

" **So** , this shockwave lithotripsy … th-thing," Chloe grinds out, trying to steer the conversation back into safe territory. "It's scheduled for tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, ma'am," Dr. Weller says.

Dan winces, squeezing his eyes shut as a fresh wave of pain overwhelms him.

"Daddy?" Trixie warbles.

"He's okay," Chloe assures her. "This is normal."

The fact that he's still suffering, though, even doped up on a truckload of morphine, makes her heart constrict.

Dr. Weller adds softly, "Breakthrough pain **is** normal. We're doing what we can."

"I know," Chloe says. "Thank you."

Lucifer turns away and stalks with a put-upon sigh to the little reading chair by the window. Sunlight frames him in sharp relief, painting him as divine as his wings once did. He looks beautiful and terrible all at once. Definitely not human. The chair squeaks in protest as he clutches the back of it a little too hard.

"Uh …," Chloe says, frowning at Lucifer's strange display, "so, when do I need to pick him up?"

"The nurse will go over the details with you," says Dr. Weller, who doesn't seem to have noticed that something weird just happened. "Do you have any questions about the procedure itself, while I'm here, though?"

Chloe shakes her head.

"Okay then," Dr. Weller says. "Looks like everything is settled." He gives them all a smile. "We'll have Mr. Espinoza on his feet again in no time."

"Byyyyye!" Dan says with a dopey grin. He gives Dr. Weller a wave that almost looks like a muscle spasm.

Chloe turns to Lucifer, who already has his mouth open for what she can only assume is a blistering heap of snark. "Don't you even start," she says, before he can make another crack about Dan's flying-high routine.

Lucifer settles on a smirk, instead.

He's making a good show of being nonchalant about this whole thing. Amused, even. Except for that weird little slip with the chair. The back of which, she now sees is definitely snapped in two. What in the hell?

She doesn't press it, though.

Not when they have an audience.

"Ready for some ice cream, babe?" she says to Trixie. "Let's let Daddy get some sleep."

* * *

That night, long after Trixie falls asleep, Chloe leaves Maze to babysit.

Chloe finds Lucifer sitting on the edge of his bed, staring at the long primary feather she'd given back to him. He strokes the feather absently along the rachis, from the end of the shaft, where he'd broken the feather away from his wing, to the off-kilter, bent tip, which had been caused by the violence of the wing's removal. The soft glow of his former plumage bathes his face, giving him an otherworldly appearance, but his expression is distant and blank, like he's looking beyond the feather in his hand, and into a void.

She hasn't seen the feather once since she gave it back to him weeks ago.

"Hey," she says, sitting beside him. The mattress dips as her weight settles. She wraps an arm low across his back and rests her head on his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

"A miniature rock collection has incapacitated poor Daniel, and you ask me if **I'm** all right?"

She nods at the feather. "You just seem … not all right." When he doesn't speak, she adds, "Are you thinking … about falling?"

He shakes his head. "Just that you humans are …." He clears his throat and looks at her. "Well, you're terribly fragile."

"Well, yeah," she says. "Compared to you."

"No comparison needed," he says with a sigh. "All it takes is a calcified deposit the size of a poppyseed getting stuck in your plumbing, and you're writhing on the ground like you've had a scrub and bubble in a bath of Hellfire. It's …."

"Scary?" she says, rubbing his arm.

He snorts, looking up from the feather at last. He gives her a humorless, dark look. "Very little frightens me."

She doesn't see much point in noting that he didn't answer her question. His non-answer answer is answer enough, she thinks. She kisses him.

"It's just kinda … how mortality works," she says.

"How on **earth** do you sleep at night?"

She laughs. "I think it's a combination of denial and resignation. I mean, there's not much we can do about it. So … why worry?"

He scoffs. "You really are terribly designed."

"But you love us anyway," she counters.

He looks at her. "Well, I love **you** , at any rate."

She smiles at him. He speaks of love with the rarity of red beryl, and each moment shines just as bright. She reaches for the feather, careful to avoid the razor-like edges. He lets go without hesitation - his trust is absolute once given. She gently sets the feather on the nightstand. Its divine light quickly overwhelms the glow emanating from his digital alarm clock, blotting out the time.

"Show me," she tells him.

A sly gleam enters his expression as his dark eyes narrow, and then with a graceful extension of his arm, he pulls her close. He flops onto his back, bringing her down onto the bed with him. The covers rustle. The world shrinks to a pinpoint.

He reaches up, pushing his fingers through her hair with a soft, stated sigh. She wraps her fingers around his bicep as it bulges. "You are exquisite," he says, looking up at her with hunger. The ferocity of his adoration is overwhelming.

Her heart starts to thump in her ears.

"Do what you will to me," he says, giving her the reins.

She sinks into the moment like it's quicksand.


	2. Hold on to Me

_**Afterglow (Hold on to Me)**_

 **Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much for the lovely feedback, everybody. I dearly appreciate all my readers who take the time to leave a note.

Chapter title credit goes to Hurts.

TRIGGER WARNING: Graphic descriptions of suicide via gunshot.

* * *

It's July, but June Gloom refuses to let Southern California escape from its enervating clutches. The morning skies hide the sun behind a thick blanket of clouds, making everything dreary and gray. Coffee becomes necessity, rather than luxury, this time of year, and Chloe sits at the breakfast table staring blankly at her cellphone, sunrise-starved. She keeps losing her place, and-

"Is Daddy staying here after he comes home from the hospital?"

Chloe blinks herself out of her stupor and looks up. Trixie's sitting hunched over a bowl full of disintegrating frosted shredded wheat. She swirls the spoon around the edges of the dish, watching more and more of the wheat break into pieces and turn to mush.

"No," Chloe says, taking a sip from her mug. "After the lithotripsy procedure, I'm just going to give him a ride home."

Trixie frowns, finally meeting Chloe's eyes. "Why can't he stay here?"

"Well, he could, baby, but … he really doesn't need to," Chloe replies with a shrug.

"But he's **sick**!" Trixie insists. "Doesn't he need help?"

Chloe's chair squawks as she pulls it around to Trixie's side of the table. "I know he scared you yesterday, but once the doctors break apart the stones, all he really needs to do is drink lots of water and sleep. Which are two things he can do easily by himself."

"But … what if the stones come back, and he falls again, and nobody's there?"

Chloe regards her daughter for a long moment, heart twisting. "Tell you what," she says, bending over to kiss the top of Trixie's head. "I promise, I'll check up on him a lot. Okay? I'll even stop by his place before I pick you up from camp."

"But you wouldn't **need** to check on him if he stayed here!" Trixie says, clanking her spoon against the bowl for emphasis.

"Monkey, he'll be more comfortable at home," Chloe says, frowning. To repair the damage he and Michael had wrought, Lucifer had paid to have their whole apartment repainted. Which had resulted in most of the living room furniture that hadn't gotten smashed, temporarily being stored in the guest room. There were about fifteen stacks of books resting on the bed in there, and the path to the bed itself was blocked by a huge pile of junk. "There's really no room for him here until we put the living room back together."

"There's room for Lucifer," Trixie grumbles.

"Lucifer doesn't stay in the guest room anymore."

"Well, then why does Daddy have to?"

Chloe's frown deepens. This is … not something Trixie's ever seemed displeased about before. Chloe leans closer to her daughter. "Are you mad that Lucifer stays here, sometimes?" she says softly. Maybe, Trixie's starting to feel like Dan's getting replaced, after all. Maybe, she and Lucifer need to cool it a bit. Maybe-

But Trixie says, "No," in a begrudging tone, her gaze back to being fixated on her cereal bowl.

Chloe wraps her arms around Trixie's warm little body and pulls her close. "You want to tell me what's wrong?" she says. "Are you still a little freaked out about yesterday?"

Trixie bristles. "I'm **not** freaked out. I'm **fine**."

An obvious lie. But Chloe knows when not to push. She holds up her hands in surrender. "Okay. Okay, but if you want to talk to me, I'm always here."

"I know," Trixie says with a dramatic sigh.

Chloe gives Trixie another quick kiss before returning to her neglected coffee. If she's planning on not being a road hazard today, she needs to finish this whole cup. Plus the grande latte Lucifer will inevitably bring her when they meet up at work. He's been on a bringing-you-lattes kick, lately. Every morning. Un-spiked, even. She has no idea what prompted this sudden, flagrant bout of servility from the entrenched master of _quid pro quo_. But she won't knock it while it lasts.

"Can I come with you to pick up Daddy even though I'll miss camp?" Trixie says.

Chloe nods as she takes an acrid sip from her mug. "Of course, you can."

A little additional reassurance that Dan will be fine, Chloe thinks, is a worthwhile reason to skip.

* * *

Dan is still yawning as the orderly wheels him toward the front desk, where a frazzled nurse is going over the discharge papers with Chloe. Dan's hair is sticking up in several different directions, and his wrinkled t-shirt appears to be put on inside out and backwards, if the tag sticking out near his Adam's apple is any indication. But at least he isn't glassy-eyed with pain, like he had been the day before.

Trixie's eyes widen when she gets a look at the wheelchair, and the fact that Dan isn't ambulating under his own power. "… Daddy?" she says in a tiny, disturbed voice.

Luckily, he's awake enough to smile and say, "I'm fine, Trix," as he takes a bashful swipe at his messy hair. "Just tired."

Trixie gives him a suspicious look.

"Really," Dan says. "Just tired." With a deep breath, he puts his weight on his hands and climbs out of the chair. "See?" he says, swaying a little as he finds upright. Trixie seems somewhat appeased. He steps over to the counter and leans against it.

His shoulder brushes Chloe's. She absently rubs his back while she signs the receipt for his emergency room copay, trying not to grimace at the cost. His head starts to dip forward.

"Stay awake," she whispers.

He makes a discombobulated, inarticulate noise and straightens like someone pinched him.

After the nurse confirms that Dan understands the post-procedure instructions, Chloe, Dan, and Trixie all walk to the car. Or, well, Chloe walks. Dan shambles like an extra for _the Walking Dead_. And Trixie traipses backward ahead of them, arms folded, eyes narrowed, as she judges Dan's flagging fitness.

"Really, I'm fine, Trix," Dan tries to assure her again. "I just need to sleep."

They're not even to the parking lot before Trixie decides he's lying. "Daddy, you should stay with us!"

Chloe sighs. "Baby, we talked about-"

"Why don't **you** stay with **me** today?" Dan offers, looking down at their daughter as a pair of sliding doors dump them all onto the sidewalk, into the dreary, temperate morning. The breeze ruffles his messy hair, and traffic noise echoes off the buildings. "I'll let you pamper me."

"Really?" Trixie says, brightening.

Chloe frowns. Trixie can be fairly self-sufficient at this age, but …. "Dan, are you sure …?"

With a shrug, he makes a show of wrapping his arm over Chloe's shoulder, like he suddenly needs the help to walk. "She's clingy," he says under his breath by Chloe's ear, too softly for Trixie to hear, just as a car rumbles past on the street. "I get it." And then more loudly he says, "I'll order a pizza for lunch. We'll watch movies all afternoon after I take a nap. It'll be fun."

"I want pepperoni!" Trixie says with a skip in her step. "And … and … and extra cheese!"

"It's a deal," Dan says.

"Okay … if that's what you want," Chloe says slowly. "You'll take her to camp tomorrow?"

"Sure," he says with a nod as he lets Chloe's shoulder go. "I should be up for driving by then. I just need to sleep this sedative off."

"Can we watch _Frozen_ while we eat the pizza?" Trixie says, oblivious.

Dan cringes. "… Again? Why not-"

" _ **Frozen**_ _._ "

Chloe pulls out her key fob and hits the button, sniggering. The cruiser chirps off to the left in the distance. They head in that direction. She's glad to leave this parenting moment in Dan's capable hands.

* * *

The crime scene is a messy studio apartment whose kitchen, bedroom, and living room, are all the same room. Angelo De Luca, 26, lies dead by the fraying sofa, his skull blown apart like a water balloon that burst. Brain matter and bone bits are splattered all over the upholstery and carpet and walls. Some of it is even stuck to the ceiling. A Remington Model 870 Slide-Action Shotgun lies discarded on the floor by the victim's hip.

The scene is a macabre nightmare that smells of gun smoke and gore, and it's bad enough to make her gut churn, even after she rubs some peppermint oil underneath her nose. The body hasn't even been dead long enough to cool, though, so the problem is more the gruesome sight than the funk of death. She does her best to keep her expression passive, but when she spots the victim's cellphone on the kitchen counter, she takes the first opportunity to grab it and step outside into the hallway. The hallway isn't much better - a neighbor must be making lunch. But tuna stench is better than abject carnage.

Chloe wrinkles her nose and starts navigating through the phone's menus. First thing to do is to try and find a suicide note, or a final call, or something that might give Chloe a picture of what transpired prior to the gunshot and why.

The phone makes little beeping noises as she finds her way to the memos section. Nothing.

"Don't **touch** that," Lucifer exclaims.

She looks up to find him stalking in like a tiger from the stairwell. He's wearing a pristine black three-piece suit and black wingtips, with a sanguine handkerchief for a pop of color. She'd called him less than twenty minutes ago. He must have flown here. Figuratively speaking.

"What?" she says, frowning at him.

"It could be rife with Dad-knows-what diseases," he says as he reaches her.

She frowns. "That's why I have gloves on …."

"Does nitrile stop radiation?" he says. He holds out a latte for her. "Coffee?"

The thought of putting anything in her stomach right now makes her insides quail, but she doesn't want to snub his thoughtfulness. She takes the cup with her free hand, the heat of it spreading into her palm, as her frown deepens. "Lucifer, what's gotten into you?"

But he doesn't answer. "Allow me," he says. "I'm cancer proof." And then he tries to snatch the phone.

She yanks it away like they're playing a game of keep away. The coffee sloshes in the cup. "Gloves," she says.

"But-"

"I don't think you're going to get sick. I think you're going to leave fingerprints." Her eyebrows knit as a thought occurs to her. "You do have fingerprints, right?"

"Well, I have friction ridges," he admits, brow furrowing as he gives his fingertips a discerning inspection. "But I doubt I leave prints," he says as he looks up at her again. "Doesn't that require sweat and oil?"

"You sweat."

"When I'm having limbs cut off, or I'm falling from space in a big bloody ball of fire, yes."

She gives him a stern look. "Get gloves anyway."

He rolls his eyes and sighs before heading into the apartment, lobbing a syrupy, "As you desire," over his shoulder as he goes.

He returns with a pair of purple gloves in moments. "Quite a mess in there."

"Yeah."

"At least, the brain was the paint and not the viscera. That would be quite a bit more noisome, wouldn't it?" He wrinkles his nose.

She blinks at his insensitivity.

"Why is the LAPD wasting resources on this?" he continues as he pulls on the gloves. They catch on his nails, and he glares at them while he fixes them, accompanied by a snap, snap, snap as he stretches and releases the nitrile to get them to fit right. "It's clearly a suicide," he says with a final snap. He flexes his fingers, examining his now-purple hands.

"We still have to investigate until that's proven." She looks up at him, forcing herself to remember he comes from a vastly different point of view than she does. "And it's not a waste, Lucifer. Even if it is a suicide."

"I'm inclined to disagree," he says, eyes narrowing. "The victim chose this. Why should you subject yourself to potential harm for-"

"Come on," she says, rolling her eyes, "I'm not gonna get cancer or plague from a **phone**. And the family deserves some closure, no matter what this guy did or didn't do."

Lucifer holds out his hand and looks at her expectantly.

"Fine," she says, not invested enough in doing the work herself to argue further with him.

She lets him take the phone this time when he reaches for it, just as Ella comes out into the hallway.

"So, what are we looking for?" Lucifer says. "A suicide note?" His lip twitches. A hint of a smile. "Ooh, Candy Crush."

" **We** are not looking for anything," Ella says, taking the phone away from him before he can start trying to beat Angelo's top score. "How many times have I told you guys **not** to mess around with digital evidence at the scene until I've had a crack? Plus, I already found a suicide note."

"By all means," Lucifer adds with dismissive wave, like Ella's intervention was his plan all along, "take the disease-ridden cancer brick away."

"Sorry," Chloe says, giving Ella a sheepish look. "I started it."

Ella's gaze creases. "You know," she says slowly, giving Lucifer the side eye, "there aren't any studies about radiation from cellphones that support-"

"Perhaps not," he concedes, "but I've concluded via observation of a sample size of billions that you humans have a 100% mortality rate, even without assistance. Not to mention my firsthand knowledge of your final destination options. You get a choice of one or the other, but abstention only works if Death likes you." He scowls. "And, unfortunately, my sister doesn't like **anyone**." His attention shifts to the phone in Ella's hand. "So, why take any unnecessary risks?"

Ella looks at him with a puzzled expression. "Are you … okay?"

"Why does everybody keep asking me that?" he snaps in reply.

Ella gives him a long, heartfelt look as she shakes her head in sympathy. Then she wraps her arms around his waist. "Midlife crisis, huh? I've heard they suck."

He scoffs. "My lifespan is infinite," he says, straightening primly as he glares at the top of her head. "I've no midlife over which to have a crisis about." His nose wrinkles in disgust. "And will you bloody cease **hugging** me?"

Ella sighs and pulls away. "You know … you're a tough nut to crack."

"I'm literally the most crackable nut you'll ever encounter. I speak no lies."

Chloe can't help but chuckle.

"Oh, you're weighing in, now, too?" he says, sounding wounded.

Chloe gives him a sheepish, apologetic look. "I'm sorry. It's just … you might not lie, but you're about as straightforward as a car in reverse. I'll grant you the nut part, though. Particularly today."

She means it as a teasing joke - his almost-instinctive tendency toward prevarication is something they've **both** been working on overcoming, lately - but … the "joke" seems to fall flat on its face.

A cold snap hits the hallway, and his expression hardens like it's frozen over. "Apologies, Detective," he says icily. And then he turns on his heels and walks away, discarding the nitrile gloves onto the floor behind him as he goes.

Ella frowns. "Wow."

"Lucifer …," Chloe calls after him, but he doesn't turn around. "Lucifer, I didn't mean it like that!"

The exit door slams shut, its hydraulics unable to withstand the force of an annoyed archangel.

"Duuude," Ella says, sounding almost impressed. "What bee is up his bonnet?"

Chloe sighs. She wishes she knew. Fuck. She squeezes her eyes shut, trying to force herself back the task at hand. "You said you found a suicide note?"

"Um. Yeah." Ella shifts the victim's cellphone into her bulging pocket and produces a folded, blood-stained sheet of paper, already sealed and tagged inside a plastic evidence bag. "Vic was sitting on it."

Chloe leans forward to inspect the note, still clutching Lucifer's gift of coffee. The note is typed, and it isn't signed. "Any idea where this was written?" Chloe says.

Ella shakes her head. "Didn't see a copy on the vic's computer, but I didn't look that hard, yet."

"Okay," Chloe says, nodding. "Let me know if you find anything else."

Ella regards her for a long moment.

"What?" Chloe says.

Ella smiles warmly. "Don't worry, Decker. He's just being a drama queen. I bet you'll be having makeup sex by dinner."

Chloe clears her throat. "Right," she says without sarcasm as blush flames across her cheeks and down her throat.

And then she rushes to be somewhere else.

* * *

The first interview is right next door in apartment 308, with Angelo De Luca's neighbor, Winslow Sumner. Winslow sits in his living room with a pile of crumpled up tissues. His eyes aren't red, though, and he doesn't look like he's been crying anytime recently.

"And you heard the gunshot at approximately …?" Chloe prods.

"Seven-ish," Winslow says, a bare croak. He clears his throat. "I was eating breakfast there." He gestures at the dinette set off to the right. "I got up and called 911 right away."

Chloe glances at the table. There're no telltale dishes lying out. No box of cereal. Nothing. Just an open magazine. The little kitchen beyond looks spotless, too. And she's not sure what to make of the not-waterworks waterworks. He's like one of those actors on television who makes all the motions of crying, but isn't crying. It's … distracting.

"And were you … close to Angelo?" Chloe says.

"Yes," Winslow says with a little nod. "Angie and I go way back." He makes a shallow sniff that sounds almost superfluous as he walks to his knick-knack shelf and pulls down a 5x7 with a metal frame. He foists the picture at Chloe. "This is us at the Pier," he says, and then he crumples back onto his couch with his tissues.

Chloe grips the cold frame and looks at the photograph.

Sure enough, the two men are standing with the famous ferris wheel filling up the background. A woman with dark hair and dark eyes stands between them, wearing only a chartreuse-colored bikini. Her arm is wrapped around Angelo's waist, and their heads are tipped toward each other like they're a couple. Beaming for the camera, Winslow is … smooshed up against the woman's other arm like a barnacle, practically making love to her elbow.

"Who's the woman?" Chloe says, gesturing at the picture.

"Oh, that's Mattie. Madeline Roche. Angie's ex-girlfriend. But we both call her Mattie." Winslow licks his lips. His stare lingers on the picture for so long Chloe starts to feel uncomfortable.

"Right," Chloe says, frowning. Something is just … not sitting right, for some reason. "Were you aware of Angelo struggling with any mental health issues?"

"He was depressed," Winslow says.

Chloe raises her eyebrows. "How did you know?"

"We talked about it a lot," Winslow replies. "He had trouble with intrusive thoughts."

"Intrusive thoughts," Chloe parrots.

Winslow nods. "Yeah. Suicide ideation."

"Suicide ideation …."

"Right, you know," Winslow continues with another shallow, fake-sounding sniff, "when somebody keeps imagining ways to die? He kept saying how he wished a meteor would drop on his head. Or that a bus would hit him. Or that he'd get eaten by a lion or whatever."

Chloe does know what intrusive thoughts and suicide ideation are. Because she's had special training in incident response. They're not terms she hears in the field often, though. Not from laymen.

"He swore he never had any plans, though," Winslow says. "And I didn't know he had a gun." Another fake-ish sniff. "If I'd known, I would have tried to get him help sooner." Winslow grimaces. "You don't think this is **my** fault, do you?"

"Of course, not," Chloe replies automatically. "I'm sure you did everything you could."

Winslow sniffs again.

"What do you do for a living?" Chloe asks, expecting to hear an answer like psychologist.

Except Winslow replies, "Oh, I'm an accountant."

Weird, weird, weird, weird, **weird**. But … being weird isn't a crime. And people do tend to act strange when they're grieving. Maybe, Winslow was just concerned about his friend and spent one day on Wikipedia, reading about depression.

"Do you know of anyone who might have wanted to hurt Angelo?" Chloe says.

"No," Winslow replies, eyes wide as he shakes his head. "Not a soul. Angie definitely embodied his name."

"Right. Okay." Chloe folds her notebook closed and pulls one of her business cards from the back leather pocket. "Well, if you think of anything else, please call." She foists the business card at Winslow. "My cell and desk numbers are on there."

* * *

As she's on her way back to the precinct, Michael pops into her car without announcement. Out of thin air. One moment, her passenger seat is empty. The next moment, she's got a police cruiser full of feathers and fluff and Lucifer-but-not. The cruiser swerves a foot before she regains control of it. A chorus of furious honks blares behind her.

" **Jesus Christ**!" she shrieks.

"I am not Jesus Christ. I am Michael."

The feathers disappear in a rustle of sound, as fast as he appeared, leaving only the man-shaped being behind, crushing the space in her car with his presence.

"Jesus Christ is a myth propagated by ignorant humans," Michael adds helpfully in that familiar Israeli lilt of his. "No one is Jesus Christ, or has ever been Jesus Christ, or will likely ever be."

She spits as a loose, little piece of floating down gets stuck on her lower lip. She slowly relaxes her death grip on the steering wheel. "Of course, Jesus is a myth," she grumbles. "I should have known."

"Truly," Michael says, nodding. "Jesus of Nazareth did exist, however. Lucifer and he were good friends before the Romans killed him." Michael rubs his temples like this fact gives him a headache. "Who do you think was responsible for the Resurrection?" He says "the Resurrection" as one would say "the pestilence" or "the famine."

She breaks into a coughing fit. Jesus and Lucifer were …? Lucifer did …? Holy **shit**. She blinks, momentarily stunned, as she imagines Lucifer doing for Jesus what he did for Emily several months ago.

"I have startled you," Michael observes, though he doesn't apologize. Or give any indication that this idea concerns him. Or let up on the otherworldly I'm-so-much-bigger-than-you weight he's smashing her neurons with.

Still .… She frowns, desperately clearing her throat. "Yeah … it's … not the best idea to _apparate_ into my car while it's moving. Maybe, wait for a red light, next time."

His eyebrows creep upward as he regards her. "You speak Latin? I am impressed."

"What?"

"You speak Latin? I am impressed."

"No, I mean .…" She sighs, thinking back over what she said. "Oh, no, I don't speak Latin. _Apparation_ is a Harry Potter thing. Trixie is reading .…" She gets a look at his intense, deepening frown. "Never mind."

His nose scrunches like he smelled something noxious. He still doesn't apologize for startling her, or for popping in uninvited. Instead, he folds his arms and stares out the window.

Her heart finally starts to plod instead of pound, and she takes a deep breath and blows it out. Then her brain catches up. "Is that … a cow … on your shirt?" she says.

He looks down at himself. "Yes," he says. "It is a holy cow."

Right. Okay. Well, it does say HOLY in big capital letters above the cow. "So … um .…" She swallows. "Why are you here?"

"I have a question."

"Yeah?"

"Do humans truly consider cake to be the best dessert in the whole universe? I find this grandiose assertion to be questionable."

She blinks. "Um. What?"

"Do humans truly con-"

"No, I mean .… Why the hell are you asking **me** that?"

"You are human."

"Yes, but I'm not representative of the whole damned species." And … why in the everloving hell would Michael, Sword of God, Power of the freaking Demiurge, care about whether measly little humans like cake the most? And **why** would he break radio silence just to ask **her** , of all people? "Are you taking a poll or something?"

He sighs, a flash of irritation bright in his eyes. "Never mind," he says, almost a growl. And then he's gone in another whoosh of feathers and fury.

She spits out another velvety piece of down, slapping it away from her mouth.

Well, that was … weird.

* * *

Lucifer isn't waiting for her at her desk when she returns to the precinct. He doesn't pick up the phone and won't answer any of the texts she sends. And the longer things go without hearing from him, the worse the pit in her stomach feels. He's hotheaded, yes. Mercurial, yes. But he's not the type to let a few misspoken words claw so deeply into his psyche. Which means … something else is going on with him. Something bad. Something that probably has nothing to do with what she said.

But … what?

She opts not to try and hunt him down at Lux after her shift ends. Not when he's giving such clear indications that he wants some space. Which is why she's shocked, after a full day of him ignoring her, to find him in her kitchen when she gets home.

His back is to her, and he doesn't say hello as she sets down her keys and hangs up her purse. The cutting board is out, and the whole apartment smells of garlic and other spices. Something sizzles as he agitates the sauté pan like an expert sous chef. A bottle of red wine she doesn't recognize rests on the island. The label looks expensive, though.

"Where is the spawn?" he says cooly without turning as she heads into the kitchen.

She swallows, stepping close. "Staying with Dan. And Maze is-"

"In Sacramento hunting escaped evil-doers," he says. "Yes. I know."

She steps closer still. Seeming intent on the contents of his sauté pan, he still doesn't turn. She risks stepping into his space. Wrapping her arms around his waist. Pressing up against his shoulder blades. He lets her. Almost sinks into it. Until she tries to step around him to see what in the hell he's making.

He uses his elbow to push her gently away from the stove. "Careful, will you?" he admonishes. "This is bloody dangerous."

"You're sautéing," she says slowly.

"Precisely!" he says. "The oil could leap out of the pan at any moment and hit you in the eye, and then what would we do? I looked it up today. Humans can't replace eyes, yet."

She blinks, incredulous. "Okay, seriously, Lucifer, what is **wrong** with you?" _Everything,_ she remembers him saying. _If you believe the hype, that is._ She's quick to amend herself, "I mean … what's got you so upset?"

He spares her a withering glance, but says nothing.

She tries a different approach. "I … didn't expect to see you tonight."

"Am I not welcome, now?" is his bristling reply. "Am I too much of a nutter for you?"

"Of course you're welcome," she rushes to say. "I want you here." She swallows. "And you're not a nut. I'm just … really …." Confused as fuck. "Surprised."

"Well, that's me, I suppose," he grumbles. "The opposite of straightforward, yes?"

She sighs. "Lucifer, when I said that, I didn't mean it as an insult. I meant it as a joke."

He sets the pan down and turns off the burner before facing her with folded arms. His eyes are dark. Unhappy. "Truth in advertising is quite important to me," he says.

"I know it is," she says. "And I wasn't trying to imply that you're untruthful. I just meant …."

He quirks his eyebrows. "Yes …?"

She opens her mouth. Closes it. What **did** she mean, exactly? She thinks of all the times he's left her perplexed. "I just meant … you're … a puzzle. And you're hard for me to put together, sometimes." His gaze remains neutral. He's listening, now, at least. "But that doesn't mean your pieces are anything other than what you say they are." She licks her lips nervously and looks up at him with a wavering smile. "And I **love** your pieces."

"Oh, do you?" he says, the words dark and rich and deep. "And which **piece** , precisely, is your favorite?"

For a moment, all she can do is frown. And that's when she notices the teasing glint in his eye.

She laughs and she slaps his arm playfully. "You have a **dirty** mind."

"I'm the Devil, darling," he replies, leering. "What did you expect?"

"I'm sorry I offended you," she says. "I really didn't intend what I said in a mean way."

He shrugs. "I may have … jumped to conclusions."

No kidding. But she isn't willing to pick at it further. Not now.

She wraps her arms around him - this time, with the burner off, he doesn't seem to care about her placement between him and the stove. His body is warm and solid, and he pulls her close. "So … are we okay?" she says, looking up at him.

"Define … okay."

"We're not in self-destruct mode, right?" she says. "This was just a normal fight. And, now, we're okay?"

He gives her an incredulous look.

"Right," she says, unable to stop herself from smiling. "I guess you're not the best person to ask about what's normal."

He shrugs. "For what it's worth, from my perspective, I would hardly label what transpired today as a fight so much as a moment of dissonance."

She snorts. "Dissonance. Really?"

He gives her a wan smile. "Darling, my idea of interpersonal conflict is rather … biblical."

"That's …." She swallows. "Oh." Right.

"So," he purrs as he leans to kiss her, "unless you're planning on causing a rather sizable flood …."

She grins, kissing him in return. His lips are soft, and he tastes like peat. He's been drinking - and not the wine he's brought. "No floods," she tells him softly.

He backs her into the countertop, cooling sauté pan forgotten. "Good," he murmurs against her skin. She feels his fingertips at the top button of her jeans. "Because I don't fancy that kind of wet."

* * *

"So … I'm curious," she says later as she returns to the bedroom.

Wearing a black silk robe, Lucifer sits sprawled on the bed like he owns it, his back propped against her headboard, his bare legs crossed loosely at the ankles. He looks up from his book - the cover says _Les Fleurs du mal_ \- and he frowns in the soft lamplight. "Yes?"

"Did you seriously resurrect Jesus?"

Lucifer's expression darkens. "For all the good it did."

"So … Easter is because of you? For real?"

"The religious holiday?" He regards her for a long moment. And then he slumps and concedes, "I suppose that is my fault." But he's quick to add, "I'm not responsible for the secular aspects, though. The rabbit? The ridiculous notion of decorating eggs and faffing about with baskets? Not me. Humanity has only itself to blame for that drollery."

She sinks onto the mattress beside him with a stunned blink. "Every time," she says. " **Every time** I think I can't be shocked anymore."

"I only meant to antagonize the Romans," Lucifer says.

"You're telling me the Resurrection was intended to be a giant _neener neener_?"

"Pontius Pilate was a wanker." Lucifer looks up to the ceiling like he's remembering something. But whatever the memory is, his recollection of it only results in an eye roll, a shake of his head, and an added, "That pillock deserved the Hell he got."

She snorts as she rests her head on his shoulder. "My life has gotten so weird."

He kisses the top of her head. "Not too much, I hope."

"Nope." She grins at him. "Keeps me on my toes."

"Good," he murmurs. "What prompted this line of questioning?"

"Well …." She bites her lip. "Michael visited me today."

Lucifer's eyes narrow into slits, and his placid look begins to have a dangerous glint. "Oh?" he says, nonchalant. And yet … not.

She nods, snuggling close. Lucifer wraps his arm over her shoulder. His body is warm, and his touch is welcoming. "Yeah," she muses, running the tips of her nails down his arm. "He wanted to know about … cake."

"Cake."

"Yeah, he wanted to know if it was humanity's favorite dessert."

"How odd."

"I know, right?" she says.

"But he didn't threaten you or make you feel unsafe?" Lucifer prods.

She shrugs. "Nope. Just talked about Jesus and cake. And then he left before I could even answer his question."

"Well, then .…" Lucifer kisses her. "Shall we chalk this up to my brother being quite the odd duck, and proceed to .…" He licks his lips. "The consideration of … **other** desserts?"

She laughs. "I thought we'd already had dessert and then some."

"Can one **ever** have enough dessert?" he says with a sly grin.

And she murmurs, "Good point," as she sinks with him to the mattress.


	3. The Currents

_**Afterglow (The Currents)**_

 **Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much to everybody who takes the time to leave me feedback. I appreciate every comment :)

Chapter title credit goes to Bastille.

Enjoy!

* * *

"Definitely not a suicide," Ella says three days later as she slaps a forensics report down onto Chloe's desk.

Chloe takes a sip from her coffee and looks up. "Oh?"

"The bullet trajectory wasn't consistent with a self-inflicted wound," Ella explains. "There was no gunpowder residue on Angelo's hands. And get this. His BAC was point three one."

Chloe frowns. Whoa. That's enough to kill in more than a few circumstances. "I don't remember seeing a liquor bottle …."

"Because there wasn't one anywhere in the apartment," Ella replies. "I found like two empty cans of beer in his trash, and that's it."

"So, he had enough alcohol in his system that he couldn't have been conscious to pull the trigger or pick up after himself. And yet there was no liquor bottle by the body."

Ella nods. "Exactly. Dude was **waste. ed**. With a capital W."

"Suggesting someone shot Angelo while he was out cold, and then hid the bottle."

"That's what I'm thinking."

Chloe frowns. "I guess the killer doesn't know we do autopsies on all suicides."

"Guess not!" Ella says with a cheerful grin. "All the better to catch him - or her."

"Any DNA or prints on the gun?"

Ella shakes her head. "Only Angelo's. No serial number on it, either. It's too old."

"Hmm," Chloe says, shifting gears as her maybe-a-murder investigation becomes definitely-a-murder investigation. "Okay, thanks."

"Sure thing!" Ella says before she trots away.

Chloe taps her pen on the desk, mentally forming a list. She needs to figure out where the gun came from, except without a serial number on the gun, that's going to be next to impossible. She needs to find out how that suicide note got there, except there's no way to track its origin. She needs …. She needs …. She glances at her coffee cup and sighs. First, she needs to make a pitstop.

* * *

Suspects, Chloe thinks as she scrubs her hands in the marble sink. Not a suicide, so who are the suspects? She has no idea on means, motive, **or** opportunity. For sure, she needs to interview Winslow again. He was … weird. And she wants to look into Mattie Roche.

She glances at herself in the mirror, smoothing some loose strands of hair back against her head. She squints, picking at an eyelash. The precinct bathroom stretches behind her in the broad mirror, all drab white tile and scratched, silver-metal bathroom stalls.

And then it's all gone in a wall of pearlescent feathers.

"This is **terrible** ," Michael says behind her, and she skips backward, heart in her throat as she almost falls against him.

She barely stops herself from shrieking at him again, and it takes her three swallows and a couple of false starts before she can interpret things rationally. The rational being that a fucking male archangel who looks like Lucifer but isn't, has materialized out of thin air, into the women's restroom. Carrying … _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince._

Wait. What?

 _This is terrible_ , he'd said.

Right. She turns off the water and turns to face him, just as he's folding his massive white wings away. Even without the wings, though, he still seems massive. Far too big to be contained by a little four-stall restroom. The mere idea of him feels like it's grinding her ribcage to dust to make space for itself.

"Why are you on book six, then, if it's terrible?" she says faintly, heart still thumping in her ears, eyes still aching from the light of his feathers.

"It is banality," he tells her with a sniff, tapping the cover of the book with a long index finger. "There are too many adverbs. The characters are simplistic. Where is the nuance?"

She swallows. "You … do get that these books were written for kids, right?"

He quirks an eyebrow at her in an expression vaguely reminiscent of Lucifer at his most incredulous. "Should you not expose your offspring to something that is more thought provoking?"

"Well, what do you like to read?" she says.

"I found the _Dead Sea Scrolls_ to be captivating."

"Of course, you did."

"Current translations do it no justice, I assure you."

"Right."

She steps away from the sink, forcing herself to move toward him. Toward the towel dispenser. Despite everything within her being telling her to run in the opposite direction. Of course, he doesn't budge, which forces her route to become somewhat of a do-si-do with him standing at the epicenter. She realizes as she passes him that his t-shirt today says, " _It's okay if you disagree with me. I can't force you to be right_." And she can't help but roll her eyes. How apropos.

"What is a narrative that contains less death?" he says.

"Than Harry Potter?" she says as she dries off her hands.

"Yes," he says, bristling to his full height like she somehow offended him, until he continues, and it's clear he's offended by something else altogether. "I am displeased with the perfidy of the author. The gradually shifting tonality from light to dark is not adequately telegraphed, and the misery in the later books does not suit my purposes."

"… Which are?"

"Vanquishing demons."

The wet paper towel rasps against her skin. She crumples it up, tosses it into the waste bin, and turns to face him again. "You **promised** me you wouldn't touch Maze unless she attacked you."

He rolls his eyes. "I am aware. I am not here for Lucifer's little pet."

"She's **not** a pet!" Chloe snaps. "For God's sake, you are so condes-"

"Everything I am is for God's sake," Michael thunders as he steps into her space, scowling. "And I condescend, because you are literally inferior."

"And yet you keep asking me for my advice for some reason!" she says, exasperated.

Which is enough to make him grind his pearly teeth. His glare is a blade, sharp and cold. _God, you are such a drama queen_ , she wants to shout at him. _Like Lucifer tripled._ But she refrains with all of her might. She's smart enough to know there are some fights she shouldn't needlessly pick, and picking a fight with the half of the Demiurge that doesn't like her? One of those.

"Chloe Decker, I require human entertainment that is uplifting," Michael says, looking down his nose at her. "Will you render a suggestion unto me, or not?"

She takes a deep breath, trying to calm down. "For kids or for anyone?"

"I confess, I cannot discern the difference," he says. "I find most human pursuits to be juvenile."

"Gee, thanks," she says with a sigh. "I don't know. _My Little Pony_?"

His eyebrows knit. "Where can I find your tiny equine?"

"No, no, it's a TV show," she says, shaking her head. "It's pretty saccharine. You can watch it on Netflix." She clears her throat. "Um. Netflix is a streaming service. You watch movies-"

"I know of this Netflix. Amenadiel likes to watch documentaries about infant _Mammalia_."

"Oh, you said hi to Amenadiel while you've been here?"

Michael gives her a bored look, as if to say, _Duh._

"So, how does any of this kill dem-" But as quickly as Michael appeared, his wings flare wide enough to brush the walls and tip the trash can, and with a rushing sound of wind and fury, the space he occupied becomes just space again, empty and bereft. She slumps. "And he's gone again."

* * *

As she returns to her seat, she notices a book sitting on her desk. _Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince._ A big fat hardback still in pristine condition. The new paper smell tickles her nose as she sits down. When did …? She looks left and right and left again, but there's no sign of Michael anywhere. And that's when she sees the sticker on the cover. In the bottom right corner. A little yellow circle with a letter D written in it. It must have been concealed by Michael's arms before.

She strokes the sticker with her thumb. She recognizes it. D for Decker. This is Trixie's book. Chloe puts these stickers on all of Trixie's books, so they're easier to keep track of if Trixie opts to take them to school or to camp. The book is still pristine because Trixie hasn't gotten to this one, yet.

A well of irritation burbles through Chloe.

Couldn't he have gotten this from a library or something, if he didn't want to pay for it, rather than stealing Trixie's copy?

Chloe looks up at the ceiling. "Real superior, Michael," she snaps, knowing he'll hear. "Get your own damned books, next time."

"Who are you talking to?" says Dan.

She whirls her chair around to face him. "Dan!" He looks a little pale, but definitely a lot better than he did a few days ago. And, at least, his shirt is the right way around, now. "I didn't know you were coming in today!"

He nods, wincing. "Just a half day today while Trixie is at camp." He raises his eyebrows at her expectantly.

"Um," Chloe says, scraping her brain for an excuse. "You know me. Always talking to myself."

"No, you're not," he says, frowning.

"These are so **cute**!" Ella says behind them, and they both turn to see her peering at a stack of construction paper that's resting on Dan's desk.

"Yeah, we … uh ... did some drawing," Dan says by way of explanation.

"More than some, from the looks of it," Chloe says with a grin.

"Hey, it was better than watching _Frozen_ for the 57-millionth time."

"Has she been on a Lucifer kick or something?" Chloe says as she watches Ella flip through drawing after drawing of a dark-haired stick figure sporting big, beautiful wings.

Dan shrugs. "I guess?" He sighs, looking at the papers. "I wish she wouldn't take Lucifer so literally. That … can't be good, can it?"

"Oh, come on, she's just a kid," Ella says. "It can't hurt to let her imagine!" She picks up a yellow piece of construction paper from the middle of the thick pile. This stick-Lucifer's wings are filled with glitter and glued-on cotton. He looks resplendent. "And look at this," Ella continues. "It's adorable!" She pets one of the wings with her index finger. "So fuzzy wuzzy."

"I know, but … Lucifer?" Dan says. "Like Lucifer as in **Lucifer**?"

But Ella just shrugs as she marvels. "Is this one fridge-bound?" she says. And then she brightens. "Can I put it on **my** fridge? The yellow matches my kitchen."

Dan snickers. "Sure. I bet Trix'd get a kick out of that."

"I'm sure it's nothing to worry about," Chloe says to Dan, who nods. She wonders how bad of a stroke he'd have if he realized Trixie wasn't imagining anything, and that the subject of her art really did, at one point, have fuzzy wuzzy wings.

* * *

Chloe's staring at Mattie Roche's police file when Lucifer sweeps into the precinct with his usual pomp and circumstance, approximately thirty minutes after she calls. He says hello to everyone as he passes, earning a lot of warm smiles and greetings in return. He's carrying one Starbucks cup, though whatever the cup contains isn't usually what he gets her - the cup is see-through, meaning it's plastic, not paper.

"Hello," he says, setting the cup down next to her mousepad.

She glances at his offering. "What's this?"

"An iced latte." Which he's never once gotten for her before. "Wouldn't want you scalding yourself."

Oh. "Right," she says, failing to keep herself from sounding a little miffed, because, well, she is. But caffeine is caffeine. And as he wanders to an empty desk to pillage the chair from it, she takes a sip from the straw.

She closes her eyes, wrapped in instant bliss as the coffee laves her tongue.

"Good?" he says across the aisle with a cat-caught-the-canary grin. "I had them add a shot of raspberry. Which …." His gaze roams her head to toe as his grin shifts into somewhat of a leer. "I believe you told me was one of your favorites, yes?"

"I love raspberry," she confirms softly, and he beams. She thinks … maybe, he's found a favor he enjoys doing _gratis_. Which … even if it's just coffee, it's no small thing. Not for him. "Thank you."

"You're quite welcome, as always," he says as he arrives back at her desk with the chair he stole from her neighbor. His mirth is quickly supplanted by a look of concern, though. "You shouldn't look so hard at your computer screen. You'll strain your eyes."

"Lucifer …."

"Allow me," he says, cheerfully bumping her chair to the side with his hip as he drags his own in front of her desk. Chilled latte in hand, her whole body shifts to the left as the wheels under her chair squeak in protest, but ultimately succumb.

"Lucifer …."

He sits down at her computer, spreads his arms like a conductor surveying his orchestra, and then gives her desk a once over. His gaze comes to a stop at her pencil cup. "Oh, this won't do," he says, reaching forward with his long arm to withdraw her metal scissors from the cup. He pats the tips of the scissors with his palm and winces. "These are sharp, aren't they? Quite hazardous."

"Lucifer!" she says, a bit more strident this time.

He throws the scissors into the trash can, ignoring her, and then his attention shifts to her favorite ballpoint pen. The one that always works and glides right across the page and never hurts her wrist.

"Hmm," he says, staring at the pen for a moment, and then giving her a long, discerning look. "Is ink poisoning common?"

She doesn't even have a chance to open her mouth before she's watching her pen get thrown away, too. It lands in the trash basket with a hollow clang next to her scissors.

"Lucifer!" she snaps, jamming the gifted coffee cup onto the papers-free corner of her desk. "Would you stop treating me like I'm breakable?"

He frowns. "But, darling, you **are** breakable."

"No more breakable than you are right now."

His frown deepens. "It's different for me."

"Oh?" She folds her arms, glaring. "Do tell. I'd love to hear this."

"Because in the whole bloody history of time, I've never not existed."

"So, wouldn't that mean your death would be a bigger deal than mine?" she says as she leans over to rescue her things from the waste bin. "I mean … not that I think anybody is gonna die via ballpoint pen today."

Lucifer snorts. "Ever heard of the expression, 'knock on wood?'" He makes a grand show of rapping his knuckles on her desk. Which isn't wood anyway, thank you very much, and she can't help but huff an irritated sigh.

"You do realize I've got a loaded gun, right?" she says, glowering.

"Yes," he replies. "And I'd bloody well take that from you, too, if I thought I could manage it without getting shot, but I know you too well for that, and I hold your skills in too high esteem."

"You're not taking my pen or my scissors, Lucifer," she says, jamming the both of them back into her pencil cup. "Give it up."

He looses a long, dramatic sigh. "Fine," he says, settling. "If you insist. I do advise against it, though."

"What is **with** you, anyway?" she says. "Why are you suddenly so fixated on-"

"Oh, who is **this** totty?" Lucifer asks, ignoring her as he looks, at last, at what's on her computer screen, at the mugshot she was peering at when he'd arrived.

"Mattie Roche," she says through clenched teeth.

"And she is?" he says. Chloe narrows her eyes, losing humor by the second. Lucifer finally seems to notice how much he's ruffled her, because he adds, " **What,** Detective?" with about as much affront as she's feeling.

She takes a sip from her iced coffee, trying to count to ten in her head. She doesn't want to fight with him right now. Not at work. Not when something is so clearly bothering him. Not so soon after they made up from the last fight. And he did bring her a coffee, which was nice of him. She tries to focus on the nice thing he did, rather than the laundry list of things she wants to smack him for.

"Angelo's ex," she explains slowly after a deep breath. "We've brought her in three times on assault and battery charges. All domestic violence. Angelo had a restraining order against her."

Lucifer's gaze darkens. "She was hitting him." He glances at the screen. Scrolls down to read the infractions. The incident that led to the restraining order appears to have involved a frying pan and broken orbital bone. "That's … unusual."

"Yeah, but it does happen," Chloe says. "So, I'm thinking she's our top suspect right now."

"Yes," Lucifer agrees. Sharp. Like a whip. And under his breath he adds, "Bint." Almost like he meant to spit the word.

She licks her lips nervously. "Lucifer, are you okay?"

"You humans have quite enough ways to die without helping each other along. It's …." He grinds his teeth, and his knuckles whiten as he clenches them, before he decides on, "infuriating."

"I know," she says. "But that's why I do what I do."

"And that's why I assist you," he says, though the words are without warmth. He looks … haunted. And a little bit sad.

She rips the top page off her notepad. "I've got her address," she says. "Do you want to drive, or should I?"

When he doesn't answer right away, she puts a hand on his shoulder. His body is a tripwire. Tight. Ready to snap. She rubs down to his bicep and gives him a squeeze. "I'm not going to die, Lucifer. Not anytime soon. Not by ink poisoning, or scissor impalement, or oil burns, or flu, or cancer, or **anything**. Okay? I'm fine."

His stare is a thousand yards.

"Lucifer?"

"Perhaps not anytime soon for **you** ," he says softly, blinking at last.

She frowns. "Is that what's bother-"

"I'll drive," he says as he rises to his feet, keys jingling as he pulls them from his pocket. He's tall. Impenetrable. Not just physically, but … like Michael. Like he's exuding supernatural "keep away" signs on purpose. Which … is a tactic he's rarely employed with her before.

"Right," she says with a sigh. "Why do I even bother asking."

* * *

"On second thought, we should take your car," he decides when they reach the parking lot.

She blinks. "My car? Instead of yours?"

"The Vette doesn't have a roll bar, darling," he says. "If we flipped over, you'd be squished."

Right then. More of this crap. "You know … you'd be squished, too."

He doesn't reply except to hold out his hand, palm up. He looks at her with his eyebrows raised expectantly. With another sigh, she says, "Fine." And she gives him her keys. She doesn't have the energy to argue about this shit right now. Not when she has work to do.

They switch directions and head to her cruiser, leaving his Corvette in its usual space.

* * *

A parade of vehicles creeps behind them, bumper to bumper, as Lucifer hogs the left lane. The people in the vehicles behind must have spotted the lights hanging from from her passenger seat visor, because nobody is trying to pass. And nobody is honking. Or tailgating them. Or doing anything that could potentially prompt being pulled over and being issued a citation. This kind of _not it!_ gridlock happens all the time to black-and-whites, and she's glad she's usually able to avoid it.

She glances at the speedometer, frowning. "Are you … actually driving the speed limit?"

Lucifer takes his eyes briefly from the road to glance at her. "Wouldn't want to drive recklessly, would I?"

"But you **always** drive recklessly."

"Well, clearly, I don't, seeing as how I'm now not doing so."

She sighs. "You could drive a **little** over."

"And risk colliding with that truck?" he says, looking pointedly to a semi about seventy car lengths in front of them. "I think not. You'd splatter like a ripe tomato in a crash like that, and I'll not be responsible for hastening your way into the afterlife."

She folds her arms and flops against the seat. She never thought she'd see the day she'd be begging Lucifer to speed a little. This is ridiculous.

"Lucifer …," she says, exasperated.

But he makes a point of turning up the radio instead of answering her. _Running with the Devil_ blasts from the speakers like Lucifer planned it. The bass beat pounds in her chest, relentless.

"But we're not. Running. **Anywhere** ," she snaps. "A turtle would beat us there!"

Except all Lucifer does is give her one of his heart-stopping come-fuck-me smiles. Or, maybe, in this case, he means go-fuck-your **self**. Then he squares his shoulders and directs all of his attention to the road. Worse, he seems impervious to all the knives she glares in his direction.

"We're gonna talk about this!" she yells into the ear-splitting whorl of Van Halen.

But … apparently not now.

* * *

After a bit of a runaround, from a brief chat with Mattie's landlord, to the front desk at the car dealership where Mattie works, Chloe and Lucifer find who they're looking for at the end of a long line of maintenance bays. By this point, it's late afternoon. The air smells of oil and grit. The dreary cloud cover has evaporated, giving way to the harsh, bright, beating July sun. Chloe wipes her sweaty brow, thankful for the shade of the bay.

"Are two you serious?" Mattie says as she rolls out from underneath a gleaming cherry-colored Porsche. Sweat and grease cover her face and her frayed overalls. She sets down a wrench on the pavement with a clink, panting. "I had nothing to do with Angie's death. I haven't seen him in months!"

"Do you have an alibi for Monday morning at approximately 7:00 a.m.?" Chloe says.

"I was having waffles with my gran," Mattie says as she sits up. "Ask her. She'll tell you. She makes them fresh for me every week."

"Does she," Lucifer says, not even bothering to hide the disbelief in his tone.

"Look, I swear … I know I had a problem," Mattie insists. "A **big** problem." She rises to her feet with a groan and wipes her face with an oil-stained towel. Her hair is a riotous brown mess, with more strands falling loose from her ponytail than there are remaining in the tail itself. She brushes her bangs out of her eyes with a look of irritation. "But I've been getting help. I'm in counseling. Anger management."

Lucifer raises an incredulous eyebrow. "You think **counseling** will fix-"

"I don't want the people I love to be **afraid** of me," Mattie says before Lucifer can finish.

Lucifer is silent, now. Staring. Still. Save for a minute twitch at the corner of his mouth. Like he was going to say something and then thought better of it. For a moment, Chloe thinks she can see some common ground forming. Some small amount of empathy in Lucifer's dark eyes.

 _Do I scare you?_ she can hear him saying, a distant memory. And she remembers how pleased he looked when she said no.

The Devil is used to being feared.

She steps beside him, close enough for her shoulder to brush against his. Just a tiny show of support.

And with that, Lucifer steps closer to Mattie. Into the woman's space. Too close for an acquaintance. Lucifer's eyes are dark and unblinking. Calculating.

"Tell me … what is it that you desire?" Lucifer says.

"Not to hurt anyone, anymore," Mattie replies. "I hate that there's this … this **thing** inside me that gets so mad."

Lucifer folds his arms. "Is that **really** your heart's desire?" And then he leans closer still. More like a lover than anything else, and Chloe swallows, suddenly uncomfortable.

Mattie blinks. "I …."

Lucifer gives the woman a wolfish smile. "Come, now, you can share anything with me.."

"I …."

"Your deepest, darkest, most twisted little want," Lucifer prods, leaning even closer. With a thump, Mattie backs into the side mirror of the car she was working on, and Lucifer closes the rest of the space between them. He dwarfs her by more than a foot. And while he stops short of wrapping his fingers around Mattie's shirt collar, Chloe starts to feel the urge to step in. He looks Mattie up and down, lingering at her pupils, like he's staring into her soul. "Tell me," he purrs. And then he adds, "Now," in a deep, oily, sexual tone that makes Chloe shiver.

"Lucifer," Chloe says. "Chill."

But he isn't listening.

The air seems to compress, and for a moment, she finds it hard to breathe.

"I don't want Winslow to be afraid of me!" Mattie blurts.

And the pressure lifts.

Lucifer frowns, cocking his head to the side as he takes a step back. "You mean Angelo."

"No, I mean Winslow." Mattie scrubs at her face like she feels ants crawling on her skin. "Fuck, what **was** that?"

"You … didn't want to get back together with Angelo?" Chloe says.

"I do!" Mattie replies. "I mean … I did." She shakes her head like she's having trouble focusing. "I mean …."

"When did you set your sights on Winslow, precisely?" Lucifer says.

"I …," Mattie says. "It's just … he's been really sweet this week, and it's …. It's helped. You know?"

"No, I don't," Lucifer says in a flat tone. "Explain."

"Well, I …." She gives Lucifer a nervous look. And then she shuts down.

They're not going to get anywhere with Lucifer looming like an angry pit bull. Chloe elbows him out of the way with a sigh. Luckily, surprisingly, Lucifer obliges her and steps to the side without much fuss.

"Mattie," Chloe says gently, "have you been talking with Winslow a lot lately?"

"Just the past couple of months while I've been getting my shit together," Mattie says with a shrug, looking at her shoes - a pair of hole-y cross trainers that are almost entirely enveloped by her baggy pants. "He wanted to help me get back together with Angie once the restraining order lifted."

"Did he?" Lucifer says with a disbelieving snort off to the right.

"Well … yeah. They were best friends."

Lucifer gives Mattie a flat look. "Were they."

Lucifer knows something. Or he's thought of something. And Chloe wants to pick his brain.

"Well, Ms. Roche," she rushes to say. "Thank you for your time. We'll check out your alibi and be in touch. Please, don't leave town."

"Yeah, whatever," Mattie says. Her tools clink as she drops down and rolls underneath the car again, giving Chloe and Lucifer a clear message to go the fuck away.

* * *

"So, what are you thinking?" she asks Lucifer as they reach the cruiser, which is parked out on the street under the inadequate cover of a skeletal palm tree.

The heat makes the air quiver over the dark metal, and Lucifer barely rests his hip against the door before he grimaces and snaps away. He directs an affronted, puzzled look to the car. And then he looks at her, and his puzzlement gives way to an eye roll that seems to be directed at himself. The devilish version of _well, duh, idiot_ , she supposes, and she can't help but offer a sheepish, "Sorry."

"It's the suit's fault, not yours," he says with a shrug, pinching up a tent of his pant leg between his fingertips. His lip curls in disgust. "Hopsack. I'll not make that mistake again, I assure you."

She frowns. "Um … what's hopsack from?"

"It's a style of loose weave, darling. Not a specific material. This suit happens to be made of wool."

"How can you wear wool right now?"

"Oh, it's quite breathable, even in summer," he says with a shrug. "Which is largely the reason I now have a first degree burn on my hip." He gives her a long look, eyes narrowing. "And I was **thinking** that Winslow is quite clearly our murderer."

Chloe nods. "Well, I did think he was acting weird when I interviewed him, but you've never even met him. What makes **you** think that?"

"What's Winslow's last name?" he says.

"Sumner," she replies.

Lucifer nods. And then, eyebrows raised, he holds up his index finger in the universal sign for _wait a moment._ He pulls his phone loose from his breast pocket. She waits patiently while he taps and swipes at the screen. And then, after a moment, he says, "Ah, here we are. I thought so." His look of triumph is unmistakable as he hands over his phone. "Tell me what you see."

Chloe squints, covering her brow with one hand, thumb-scrolling with the other. He's navigated to the Instagram page of WinslowDown123. She bites her lip as she scrolls through. Picture after picture after picture. Of Mattie. There are a couple of pictures of Angelo here and there, but none newer than six months old - when the restraining order was taken out on Mattie - and none without clear focus on Mattie. Even the captions with the pictures are blatantly fixated. Chloe finds the picture Winslow showed her earlier. The one at the Pier. And Winslow's accompanying caption is: _Took my woman to the beach today with Angie. So much fun in the sun!_

"Wow," Chloe says. "This guy is making it sound like Mattie's **already** his girlfriend."

"Precisely, Detective," Lucifer says. "And if I know anything of humanity, I know its vices. I know what it is to covet."

"And your theory is that Winslow coveted Mattie."

"I'd say it's more than a theory, given that," he says, nodding at his phone. "It's a classic honeytrap strategy, really. Creating a comfort vacuum and then … offering comfort."

"The question is … how do we prove it?" Chloe says, frowning. "Because a gut feeling and a creepy Instagram page don't really establish probable cause. And I need probable cause for a search warrant."

"I could always have a crack at our dear Winslow," Lucifer says.

"Or …," Chloe says, thinking. She's not really keen on setting him loose on Winslow right now, given how unstable he's been seeming. "We could see if Mattie will do the work for us."

"As a concept, I fancy it," Lucifer says. "Care to give a practical demonstration?"

Chloe smiles. "Come on," she says, grabbing his arm. "I want to try something."

* * *

Mattie is back underneath the Porsche when Chloe and Lucifer return to the maintenance bay. "I'm so sorry, Ms. Roche," Chloe says. "I have a couple of follow up questions for you."

"Jeez, I'm behind on my quota!" says Mattie. "Will you guys leave me alone?"

"I promise," Chloe says, offering what she hopes is a placating smile, "it'll be quick."

"Fine," Mattie says with a sigh.

"Do you know if Winslow owns or had recent access to a gun? Specifically a Remington Model 870 Slide-Action Shotgun that was built before 1968?"

"What?" Mattie says, scratching her head. "Why would you ask-"

"A gun, Ms. Roche," Chloe repeats. "Do you know?"

"I … I don't know. Maybe, through his uncle?" Mattie says. "He owns a gun range. They're close."

Chloe pauses, surprised by this tidbit. She wasn't expecting any new leads from this line of questioning, but she'll take one happily. "What's the name of the gun range?" she says.

Mattie shakes his head. "I don't know. Um. Tom's Guns & Ammo? I think?"

"How original," Lucifer snarks.

"Do you have any reason to suspect that Winslow might commit a violent act?" Chloe barrels onward as she writes down the name of the gun range.

At this point, Mattie can only stare in stunned silence.

"She means murder," Lucifer offers helpfully, eyes glinting.

"Wait, you think Winslow-"

"Have you ever felt unsafe around him?" Chloe continues, relentless.

"This is **crazy** ," Mattie says. " **You guys are crazy**."

Lucifer cocks his head to the side. "Are we, Ms. Roche?"

And Mattie, to her credit, bites her lip, like she's actually considering the possibility that they're not.

"All right, well, thank you for your time and cooperation once again, Ms. Roche," Chloe says as she caps her pen. "As I said before, we'll be in touch."

And with that, she turns on her heels. Lucifer follows close behind, and they leave Mattie still goggling. All that's left to do is let the pot boil over, unattended. Chloe's hoping … if left long enough to stew, Mattie might do some of their legwork for them. Because she can access places without a warrant that Chloe, and by extension Lucifer, can't touch. And, at least, now, she and Lucifer have another lead to follow with that gun range tip. Maybe, they can visit it tomorrow.

For now, though … she has a date.

* * *

One of the perks of being on Lucifer's no-questions-asked doorbuster list is that there's always a high top waiting at Lux. No cover charge. No wait. Nothing but the cost of tips, for all the top-shelf liquor one can drink. Which makes Lux the ideal place for what has become a not-exactly-monthly kind-of-haphazard after-work treat for the women in Chloe's immediate social circle.

"So … you and Lucifer …?" Linda says over the throb of the bass, goggling.

Chloe nods. "Yeah."

"I mean …." Linda glances at Ella and Emily, who are sitting across the table, cackling over some X-rated joke Ella just told. They don't seem to be paying any attention to Linda and Chloe's little pow wow. And then Linda looks across the dance floor at Maze, who wandered off to talk to some leather-clad guy behind the bar. Phillip, if Chloe remembers correctly. Or, maybe … Felipe? Linda continues, "I mean, you know … **everything**."

"Yeah," Chloe says.

"And you're together."

"Yeah."

"Like … **together** together."

"Yeah."

"And you're …." Linda's eyebrows creep toward her hairline as she makes an awkward, somewhat lewd little gesture. "... Having sex?"

Chloe feels her face heat. "Um. … Yeah."

" **Wow** ," Linda says with a stunned blink.

Chloe feels a bit like she's watching whiplash in action. Guilt festers. A ton of literally out-of-this-world shit went down in the past few months. And Linda wasn't there for any of it. She's bound to feel out of the loop. And it can't be easy to hear all of this at once.

"How is **that** going?" Linda continues.

Chloe blinks. "Are you asking me if he's good?" she says, disbelief dripping from her tone.

"Oh, honey, I **know** he's good," Linda says, and for a moment, her gaze grows distant. "I mean …." A secret little smile loiters on her face. She looses a small, pleased laugh at some distant memory. And then she blushes and looks away like she thinks Chloe just caught her watching porn. "What I meant to say was …." Linda clears her throat, and she schools herself with a much more placid expression. "How is your **relationship** going? That must be … complicated."

Complicated is definitely one word for it. Chloe frowns, swirling her finger around the top edge of her glass. "He hasn't talked to you about it?"

Linda shakes her head. "I haven't started taking patients again, yet. He's only visited me as a friend since I was admitted to the hospital. And, as a friend, I gotta tell ya, he's … rather tight-lipped."

"Oh."

For a moment the conversation ceases, and Linda doesn't seem to know what to make of it. Then her gaze softens, and she takes a sip from her margarita. "Chloe, I'm fine," she says. "I thought it might be a good time for a teeny sabbatical. That's all."

"You're sure?" Chloe says.

"I take a sabbatical every three or four years," Linda replies with a shrug. "Helps prevent compassion fatigue."

Chloe frowns. "And talking about this isn't going to … give you … more fatigue?"

"No," Linda says. "Talk."

"It's …." Chloe sighs, taking a sip from her daiquiri. She's let it sit for too long, and the frozen part of the drink isn't so frozen anymore. More … cold strawberry syrup. But it still tastes okay. "Well, it's going."

Linda frowns. "That sounds ominous."

"It's just … he's gotten kind of fixated on … my mortality. I guess."

"How so?"

"He keeps going on and on about all the ways I could die and then taking extra steps to remove those threats," Chloe says. She rolls her eyes, thinking back. "He tried to take away my scissors earlier today. Because they're sharp. And my pen. Because ink poisoning. **Ink poisoning,** Linda."

"Ink poisoning?" Linda says incredulously.

Chloe nods. "It's like he suddenly wants to put me in a bubble and never let me out again. And I get it. I mean … this has to be a new concept for him. Caring intensely whether some puny little mortal lives or dies. It's just …."

"Driving you insane?" Linda suggests.

"A little bit, yeah," Chloe admits. "And I'm … kinda worried he's going to decide I'm not worth all the stress."

"Chloe-"

"I mean, we're not exactly a perfect match. Or **any** match, really. I went into this assuming we'd implode at some point. Just …." She looks into her daiquiri soup with a depressed sigh. "Just not so soon."

"Have you tried talking to him about this?" Linda says gently.

"Of course, I have," Chloe says. "The second I open my mouth, he changes the subject."

"Maybe, he just needs time to work it out on his own."

"Time?" Chloe says with a snort. "That's your professional advice? **Time**?"

"Well, no," Linda says, giving Chloe a sheepish grin. "That's my advice as your friend. But … as a professional, I still think it's apt." Linda pauses to take a sip from her drink, thinking. "Lucifer is …. Well, it can be hard for him to make changes at a human pace. Not necessarily because he's stubborn-"

Chloe can't help but snigger.

"-Though he **is** stubborn," Linda continues, smiling. "Just … he's lived for a very long time. What feels like an eternity to us probably feels like the blink of an eye for him. He might need more time to adjust to things than what might seem reasonable to you or me."

"I know," Chloe says, pinching the bridge of her nose. "I know. It's just." She sighs again. "I'm not any good at waiting for problems to fix themselves. My whole job is about fixing problems **myself**."

"Maybe, you'd like to start coming to therapy."

Chloe laughs. "I think I'll pass for now."

"Okay, okay, break it up, you two," Ella says from across the table, pounding the flat of her palm on the table to get everybody's attention. "This night isn't for shrinking; it's for **drinking** ," she says, giving Linda a stern look.

Linda and Chloe exchange a knowing grin, before Chloe says with a nod, "You're right, Ella. We're sorry."

Ella cups her hands over her mouth to shout across the floor, "It's not for ditching your tribe to talk to the admittedly sexy bartender, either!"

Maze seems to be too far away to hear over the bedlam, though.

"Come on, ladies, it's **our** night!" Ella says. "Why is it always so hard to get you guys to-" She frowns, realizing she's lost Emily somewhere in her rally call. She waves a hand in front of Emily's face. "Helloooo?"

"You know, I was thinking …," Emily says, staring blankly up at the strobing, hypnotic lights hanging from ceiling, "we could see if there are receipts for ammunition in the trash."

"That won't work for an apartment building with a communal trash bin," Chloe says. "Anybody can buy shotgun shells."

Emily nods "True. But finding a receipt in the bins for that specific apartment building would certainly add support for your Winslow theory, at least."

"Not enough for probable-"

"Oh, for crying out loud!" Ella exclaims. "You guys are **shameless**." And then she waves at maybe-Felipe, gesturing for double shots of who-knows-what. "This round's on me. Clearly, it's needed."

"Isn't it technically on Lucifer?" Linda says.

"All the more reason to drink up," Ella says brightly. "Dude can afford it." She flashes a cat-like grin at them all. "Now, who wants to race me to tipsy?"

* * *

Trixie's terrified shrieking snatches Chloe out of twisted dreams. Her head is pounding, her skin is flaming, and she feels like she might lose what remains of her daiquiris onto the carpet as she flops out of bed. The carpet scrunches underneath her feet as she takes off at a sprint down the swaying hallway. Or is she swaying? Shit, she's regretting the daiquiris.

" **DADDY**!" Trixie yells, renewing Chloe's panic.

She bumps into Maze in the hallway, almost falling over in the process. "What is it?" Maze says, knives flashing in the moonlight. "I'll kill it."

"I think it's just a nightmare," Chloe says, pressing the back of her hand against her lips as she fights back vomit.

They both head to Trixie's room, only to find her alone, tossing and turning and clawing at her pillows like a wildcat. Maze sheathes her knives. "I'll check outside, just in case," she says. And then she's gone in a whisper of movement that Chloe doubts she could track, even if she were sober.

"Wake up, baby," Chloe says as she sits on Trixie's little bed. "Wake up." She shakes Trixie's shoulder. "It's just a nightmare. Wake-"

The moment Trixie snaps awake, she bursts into tears. "Daddy's going to die," Trixie wails. "I don't want Daddy to die!"

And all Chloe can do, heart in her throat, is hold her daughter while she cries. "Daddy's fine, baby," Chloe tries to soothe. "Daddy's not going to die. He got kidney stones. That's all."

"Where is he?"

"He's at home, remember?"

"I want Daddy," Trixie sobs pitifully into Chloe's nightshirt.

Her heart constricts. "You want to call him with me? I'm sure he'll pick up."

Trixie nods tearfully, and Chloe stumbles back to her bedroom to grab her cellphone off her nightstand, not sure what else to do. There's a glowing strip of light underneath Trixie's door when Chloe returns, and she thinks Trixie must have gotten scared of the dark and flipped on the bedside lamp. When Chloe opens the door again, though, the room is still and quiet and black as pitch, and Trixie's breaths are thick and even. Like she never woke up in the first place.

"Trixie, babe," Chloe whispers into the darkness, frowning as she clutches her cellphone.

But Trixie is sound asleep.

What in the hell?

Chloe's stomach churns, and she shambles back into the hallway. Some fucking daiquiri. Or nightmare. Or daiquiri nightmare. Maybe, Trixie was never the one dreaming in the first place. Shit. Chloe doesn't think much more about it as she collapses back into bed, wishing the room would stop spinning.


	4. 4 Minutes

_**Afterglow (4 Minutes)**_

 **Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much, as always, for all the lovely feedback :)

Chapter title credit goes to Madonna.

* * *

The languishing June Gloom in July is back for another round, and the sunlight shining in through the precinct's big bay windows is muted and gray. The building around her exists in a comatose hush. Even the perps seem to be asleep on their feet, and the smell of coffee is doing nothing to perk Chloe's tired, hungover brain into something resembling sentience. She wishes she could bottle up the afternoon sunshine for consumption at dawn, when it's actually needed.

With a sigh, she hits the delete key, scrapping the last paragraph of incoherent gobbledygook she's absently spilled into her investigative report. Which … unfortunately leaves her with nothing but a blinking cursor again. She pulls her fingers through her hair, glaring with frustration. She **hates** that blinking cursor.

The telltale plonk of Emily's favorite leather boots against the floor tiles drags Chloe's attention away from her computer.

Emily sidles in front of Chloe's desk, grinning like Maze on a hunt. "Hi!" Emily says, way too brightly at this hour to be sane. She's holding something behind her back, but Chloe can't tell from this angle what it might be.

"… Hi?" Chloe says slowly. She's too tired for guesswork, so she doesn't even try.

"Tell me you love me," Emily says, eyes gleaming.

Chloe's eyebrows knit. "I … love you?"

Emily's leather bomber jacket squeaks as she almost vibrates out of her skin with excitement. She produces a printout - the thing she'd been carrying concealed behind her. The top page of the printout is a cover sheet for a secure fax. _Bureau of Alcohol, Tobacco, Firearms, and Explosives,_ the header reads, accompanied by a familiar circular seal.

"Looks like Tom's Guns & Ammo reported a stolen Remington Model 870 Slide-Action Shotgun earlier this week," Emily says. "Which we didn't know about, because the owner only reported it to the ATF. Not us."

Chloe blinks. "Really?"

Emily nods. "Really!" She shakes the printout. "You can thank my guy at the LA field division for this beauty." A sheepish grin pulls at her lips. "I … may have drunk dialed him last night."

"That is just … super sad," Ella comments, brown eyes wide and overflowing with sympathy. She'd been walking past, carrying a stack of forensics reports, but now she veers toward Chloe's desk to join the conversation. "Even your drunk dials are work-related?"

"I don't think that's sad at all; I think it's wonderful," Emily says without shame. She shoves a flyaway strand of curly hair behind her ear and pushes up her glasses. "I've been happily married for fourteen years - literally since Massachusetts made it legal - to my high-school sweetheart, who I've known since I was fifteen. I don't have any exes to drunk dial."

"A fair point," Ella concedes with an abashed look. "Sorry."

Emily just gives her a grin, and winks as if to say, _No big deal_. _It's forgotten._

"Drunk dial or not, you really went out of your way for this," Chloe says, looking up at her. Given Tom's Guns & Ammo's connection with Winslow … that gives her potential means. Combined with the creepy Instagram stuff, and some of Mattie's other comments … Chloe's got potential motive. Opportunity is a given, considering that Winslow lives next door and was home to call 911 when he heard the gunshot. Not a rock solid case by any means, but it doesn't need to be. She's got enough for probable cause. "Thank you. A lot."

"I'm a firm believer in women helping women," Emily replies with a shrug.

Ella grins. "As a theme, I'm liking it!"

"Me, too," Chloe says as she pushes her chair back and rises to her feet. She hasn't felt so accepted at work since … well … ever. Police work is traditionally a cowboy's world. And it's nice to have so many people in her corner, for once. Dan had always been there, but … it just wasn't the same. Between her new "tribe" and Lucifer's steady encroachment into her life … she feels more "full" than she has in a long time. "We make a good team if I do say so myself."

"And I'll say it if you don't." Ella raises her fist. "Put her there. Go team!"

They all exchange a friendly fist bump. Ella jaunts off to the lab with her reports. Chloe takes the ATF's fax and sets it onto her desk next to her coffee cup, mentally bumping her planned visit to Tom's Guns & Ammo to next week, assuming it was even still needed.

"Looks like I'm writing an affidavit, today," she says. Which … great. More blinking cursor.

"Want some help?" Emily says, pulling Chloe's attention away from the looming stack on her desk. "I'm between cases," Emily continues. "I think the lieutenant is holding off on assigning us anything big until Dan's no longer among the walking wounded."

"I'd love some help," Chloe says. "Hold that thought, though. I need a sugar infusion, first."

* * *

"What is humanity's obsession with Mars?" Chloe hears as she's bending over to grab a Snickers bar from the vending machine tray. "It is a boring planet."

She straightens to find Lucifer's wayward twin standing next to the machine like it's any other day, and he pops into the precinct in plain view all the time. To add to his gall, his black t-shirt today says, " _This is my human costume. (I'm really an angel.)_ " And as far as she can tell, he hasn't performed any wacky tricks with reality to conceal his presence. His wings, at least, are put away already, though, so her coworkers aren't likely to go insane. There's that.

"What are you **doing** here?" she half-blurts, half-hisses. "Anyone can see you!"

He gives her a quizzical look. "… I am asking about Mars. Have you sustained otic damage since we last spoke?"

At which point, as if to prove her concern is legitimate, Dan shows up behind them. He catches sight of Michael. He pauses. His eyes widen just enough to bely his rather chill expression. "Um …," he says. His gaze roams from Michael's sandals, to his distressed jeans, to the existential declaration of angel-hood on his t-shirt, to the un-wrangled mop of black curls spewing from his head.

"Human," says Michael with a regal nod.

A chuff of laughter gets caught in Dan's throat. "Whatever, man. I'm not even gonna ask." As if he's now so used to Lucifer's eccentricities, nothing can faze him anymore.

"That is good," Michael says in a neutral tone, eyebrows knitting, "because I am not answering non-emergent prayers at this time."

And Dan laughs again. "You. Answer prayers."

"A minuscule but countable amount," Michael replies with a nod, absent of all sarcasm. "Most do not have merit, or are far below … I believe you would say … my 'pay grade.'" He even puts the words "pay grade" into little air quotes. Where he learned that gesture, she doesn't know and can't guess.

"Okay, Wonder Woman," Dan says with a snort. "Whatever you say."

"I am not Wonder Woman. I am Michael."

"Of course, you are," Dan says in a placating tone. He turns to Chloe. "You're picking up Trixie from camp today, right?"

"I was planning to," Chloe says slowly.

Dan nods. As he marches past, he gives "Lucifer" a friendly clap on the back. Michael, of course, doesn't even sway, and Dan winces like he thinks he just slapped a brick. After he shakes out the kinks in his palm, he grabs a small cup of labeled pudding from the communal fridge, and then he retreats back the way he came from.

Michael watches Dan go with a puzzled expression. "Your species remains inexplicable to me."

Chloe can only close her eyes and count internally to ten. She wonders how much Dan would freak if he knew he'd just struck the Sword of God. "What were you asking me again, exactly?" she says faintly, pinching the bridge of her nose as a headache begins to encroach.

"Mars is a brown rock," Michael says, shifting his focus back to Chloe. "What is so fascinating about it?"

She opens her eyes, frowning. "I thought Mars was red."

"It only appears that way from your limited perspective due to the rust in its atmosphere. It is brown. Drab, ugly, monotone brown. Russet on a good day."

"Oh," is all she can think of to say.

He leans against the wall, a long, graceful line of corded muscle. The shirt rides up his torso a little, and she gets a glimpse of his belly button. Or, rather … the smooth, pale skin where his belly button should be. _It seemed like a fun idea at the time,_ Lucifer had said about his navel. Holy shit. Proof positive that half of the dynamic duo is joyless.

"Chloe Decker."

She shakes her head, jolted from her tangent. Michael is glaring.

"Sorry," she says, feeling a bit like he just rapped her knuckles with a ruler. "… What were you saying?"

"Why must you obsess about Mars?"

"I … didn't think we did?"

A folded newspaper falls through the space in front of her. She's so startled by the sudden appearance of an object from thin air that she almost drops her candy bar, and for the first few moments of this new reality, she's left scrabbling for purchase. The paper wrinkles and rips, and she lets out a haphazard squeak of surprise. Meanwhile, Michael only gives her a bland look.

When she manages to right herself, she pockets her chocolate bar and grips the paper, glaring at him. "Next time," she tells him through clenched teeth, "mojo it into existence, first, and **then** hand it to me."

He doesn't say sorry. Rather, he gives her a look that says, _Is it my fault that your pathetic human reflexes cannot comprehend reality fast enough to discern my alteration of spacetime?_ Then he gestures at the paper and says, "This is one article of many."

She sighs and unfolds the paper. _Can the US Really Get Astronauts to Mars by 2030?_ the headline reads. She skims the page and shrugs. "After the moon, it's just … the next logical place for us to go?" she says. "We're not like you, you know. Mars is a long way away for us."

"You are primitive."

"We're just not divine," she counters.

"This is what I said."

She grinds her teeth. "Look, I-"

"This is truly a worthy aspiration to you?" he says, eyebrows raised. "To go to Mars?"

"Well, not to me **specifically** , but yes for humanity in gen-" She expels a stressed sigh when she realizes she's talking to empty space. She rolls her eyes, looking up at the ceiling. "You could, at least, learn to say goodbye before you flap away!"

She doesn't have time to ponder his disappearance, though, because her cellphone rings. Her work phone. She glances at the screen. She doesn't recognize the number, only the LA area code.

"Decker," she says once she's picked up.

"He has the fucking suicide note saved on his laptop," hisses a distraught woman. "It's right here on his fucking desktop in plain view. How **could** he-"

Who …? "… Mattie?" Chloe says doubtfully.

"He has the suicide note!"

Chloe's heart starts to pound as she rushes back to her desk. "Who has what suicide note? Where are you?"

" **Angie's** note! The note you found with …." Mattie's breath hitches with upset that's only a razor's width short of panic. She clears her throat. "But I'm at Winslow's place, and the note is on his laptop," she continues. "He's in the shower. Detective Decker, what do I do? Do I-"

"Close what you were looking at, and get out," Chloe tells her. "Get out, now, Mattie. Don't take the laptop with you."

"But-"

"It's technically theft if you do that," Chloe says. "Just get somewhere safe." She rounds the corner, almost bumping into the back of Emily's chair in the process. Emily looks up, chewing on a pen cap, a perplexed look on her face. Chloe directs a pointed glance to the desk phone, while holding her extended pinky finger and thumb by her chin and ear, respectively. The universal sign for _pick up the damned phone_. "I'm calling in a warrant to search Winslow's place as we speak," she says to Mattie. "I'll be there in a few minutes. Just get out."

"What's the emergency?" Emily says as she snatches up the receiver and starts dialing.

Chloe cups her hand over her cellphone's receiver and whispers, "Mattie Roche found evidence that Winslow wrote Angelo's suicide note."

"Holy shit!" Emily says. "That's-" She blinks. "Yes, I need to talk to Judge Gómez immediately. It's urgent." A pause as she taps her pen frantically. "Yes, right, this is Detective Emily Blake. Badge number seven three fi-"

Chloe turns her focus back to Mattie. "Mattie, are you listening to me? Mattie? You need to leave the premises. You're in danger if he discovers- Hello?" She glances at the phone screen, only to discover the call disconnected about twenty seconds ago. "Shit." She hits callback and waits. Nobody picks up. She hits callback again and waits. And waits. And waits. Nobody picks up. Mattie could have just dropped her phone or something. But …. "Shit, shit, shit."

 **Why** did Chloe decide to get a civilian involved?

 _Because you're an idiot_ , she scolds herself, shaking her head. _That's why._

She glances at her watch. Still too early for rush-hour traffic to have subsided, which means the 405 is going to be a nightmare. Lucifer's never going to be able to make it to Angelo's from Lux. Not in time. Not without wings. Damn it. Still, she texts him anyway. " _911,"_ she types, fingers flying over the keys. " _G2 Angelo's. Mattie in trouble next door. OTW ASAP."_ Once she hits send, she doesn't wait to see if the message is received.

Emily's still on the phone, and she likely won't be finished dictating the warrant for at least another twenty minutes. Dan, though …. "I need an extra body for a warrant," Chloe says to him as she jams her phone into her pocket and grabs her keys. "Are you up for it, or should I grab someone else?"

Dan drops his plastic spoon and newly empty pudding cup into the trash can next to his desk. "I can manage," he says, rising quickly to his feet. He steps over to his gun locker to grab his flak jacket. "What happened to Lucifer?"

She blinks. "What happened to …?"

Dan's eyebrows creep toward his hairline. "He was just here, wasn't he? Isn't he usually your 'extra body' lately?"

"Oh." Shit. Shit, shit. "Um." What to say? What to- "He … went home to change. I texted him, but I don't think he can make it to Angelo's time."

"He can't be more than five minutes out from here, if he's even at his car, yet."

She shakes her head. "We don't have time to gamble on where he might be." Dan opens his mouth to reply, but she adds, "Let's go!" in her best Mommy-means-it voice. Then she takes off at a sprint toward the parking lot, giving him the option to follow or to protest, but not both.

He follows.

* * *

The black-and-white sent by emergency dispatch is pulling up to the curb outside of Winslow's apartment building, just as Chloe veers onto the cross street. Her blaring sirens slice the air. She blasts across a four-way stop and double parks beside the black-and-white, screeching to a halt just as the smell of burning rubber begins to get unpleasant. She tosses her law enforcement placard onto the dash, pushes away her seatbelt, and clambers out of the car. She and Dan exchange quick introductions with the two uniformed officers from the black-and-white. And then Chloe's off again, all three men trailing behind her.

Reality moves at a blur as she zips inside and pounds up the steps, rather than waiting for the lumbering elevator.

Her heart is pounding, and her lungs are burning, by the time she reaches Winslow Sumner's place on the third floor.

Dan takes the position across from her, leaning his shoulder against the wall by the doorknob, while she sets up by the door's hinges. Once he nods to indicate he's ready, she leans forward and tests the knob.

Locked.

She switches tactics.

"Winslow Sumner, LAPD!" she barks, rapping on the wood near the peephole. The impacts of her fist are so forceful that the whole door shakes on its hinges. "Open up, **now** , or we're breaking down the door!"

She glances at the two uniformed officers, who are carrying the ram.

"Wait!" she hears faintly. A woman. "Wait, wait, wait!"

Chloe frowns. "Mattie?" she calls.

"I'm okay!" Mattie says. "Everything's f-"

"FUCK YOU!" belts a man. "YOU FUCKING BITCH. I'LL KILL YOU. I'LL-"

The male voice ceases. Mattie laughs nervously. "Okay, I concede that fine is probably not the best word to use in this situation."

What in the …? Chloe turns to the uniforms and nods. "Ram it," she says. "Now."

The ram, which is built to overcome far more unyielding targets, demolishes the lock and part of the door frame in less than a breath. She bursts into the apartment, gun drawn. Dan bowls across the threshold behind her.

"Don't shoot!" says Mattie.

Chloe blinks at the sight before her. Winslow is lying on the rug by the sofa, and Mattie is sitting on top of him, straddling his torso with her legs. Her hands are clasped over Winslow's mouth as he spits and curses. And Winslow is struggling and kicking like a tiger being held down belly-up.

Mattie gives Chloe a wavering smile. "Would you believe I take Judo? Helps keep me calm."

Without another word, Chloe whips out her handcuffs and stalks forward. _Good for you,_ she's thinking. But she'll save the words for when she figures out how to untangle these two without somebody getting hurt.

* * *

Hours later, Winslow's apartment is secure. The two uniforms took Winslow back to the station to book him. Mattie went home to sleep after promising to come into the station on Monday to make a statement.

Meanwhile, a horde of people from the precinct - some sworn, but the majority not - are trawling through every square inch of the apartment, which is feeling less and less like a living space, and more and more like a sardine can made for cops. Ella, at least, was smart enough to declare the dining room table her turf, and her forensic equipment is sprawled across it, staking claim.

"Ohhh, yeah," Ella says as she scrolls through Winslow's laptop contents.

"Good?" Chloe says, peering over Ella's shoulder.

Ella squints at the screen, marking her place with her index finger. "Well, I can't tell for sure if it was written by Winslow, of course, but **someone** used this laptop to write a suicide note." She clicks the trackpad a few times, examining timestamps and some other things. "Several drafts, actually. Dating back more than a month." She shakes her head reproachfully. "That's just cold, man." And with that, she scoots back her chair. "Obviously, we're going to need to submit this to computer forensics. They'll be able to do a more thorough search and hopefully establish who had dominion. Superficially … sure looks like Winslow, though."

"What's the likelihood that Angelo had access to the computer?"

Ella shrugs. "How often do you let anyone use your laptop? That's like letting someone trawl through your underwear drawer."

"Lucifer's used mine, but …," Chloe says, sighing, "let is a strong word for that."

"He hacked it, huh."

"I didn't think my password was that simple."

Ella snorts. "Well, I'd imagine he has underwear drawer privileges, anyway." She brightens. "Say, how's that going, anyway? Is he still midlife crisis-ing? At least, hot makeup sex is like Godiva on a scale of eh to mind blowing." A speculative, hungry look crosses her face. "The makeup sex **was** Godiva, right?"

Flames lick along Chloe's face, and she looks away.

"Taking that as a big fat yes," Ella says with a knowing wink.

Someone clears his throat behind them, and Chloe looks up to find Dan - also blushing ear to ear - smooshed between her back and the wall. "Hey," she says, blush deepening as she adjusts to give him some space at the table. "Anything?"

He sets a small box down in front of Ella with telltale, metallic clink. Ammo. "Found … uh …." He clears his throat awkwardly and swallows, not meeting Chloe's eyes. "Found some shotgun shells hidden in a shoebox."

"Oh, that's gre-"

With a metal shriek, the front door of the apartment blows back on its broken hinges and falls flat to the floor, revealing a disheveled, wild-eyed Lucifer at the threshold. Her throat closes. His presence is an unfurling wave that cracks and crashes against all of the too-close walls, yanking everyone into its undertow. "DETECT-" he bellows, only for the word to halt and die in an overwrought, gravelly croak. The door frame surrounds him with a white halo as he stares, stunned, taking in the hectic scene before him with glowing, red eyes.

In full view. Of everyone.

"Lucifer!" Chloe says, a pitiful gasp, because her lungs refuse to expand. Shit, she forgot he was even en route. She forgot all about him in the chaos of the arrest. With a heave, she sucks down air like she just broke surface after five minutes under, but it's not enough. Spots form in her vision. "It's okay," she says, breaths whistling in her chest. "Everything's fine. Lucifer, I'm fine."

He licks his lips, shifting from foot to foot. "There was an accident on the 405," he says in a deep, dark, midnight voice. His burning eyes are unblinking. "It … t-took me an age."

The wave is not receding.

From the way Dan's grabbing at his collar and Ella keeps clearing her throat, they're both feeling Lucifer's meltdown in spades. But at least everybody seems so overcome with their own problems, they're not looking at the inferno Lucifer's irises have become.

Chloe dashes across the carpet, into Lucifer's orbit. His breaths are tight, stressed pinpoints. "Hey," she says, reaching for his shoulder, though it takes another, "Lucifer, hey," before he even seems to notice she's there. The moment her fingertips touch his suit, she feels it. Feels him. Feels how undone he's become. Her brow creases with concern. "Lucifer, you're shaking."

He licks his lips again and says nothing.

"I'm sorry I didn't check in with you," she murmurs, trying to soothe him. "I'm really sorry. The crime scene has been a zoo. I got distracted."

"Yes," he says, the word tight and clipped. "Distracted."

She strokes his arm. He's still trembling. "Are you okay?" she says, worry encroaching like kudzu.

"I can't breathe," he admits quietly.

And then he snaps.

The sound of his hypoxic laugh is like glass breaking, and she's maybe imagining it, but she sees blame, there. In his eyes. He can't breathe because of **her**. It's **her** fault. Because she makes him vulnerable in more ways than one.

"I can't **breathe** ," he repeats with more insistence.

And then his lip curls. She sees a wolfish flash of teeth. He looses an inhuman growl that makes the hair on the nape of her neck stand up, and her innards drop. Logically speaking, she's not scared of him, but her irrational self can only withstand so much of this otherworldly onslaught before her fortitude breaks. She can't stop the unhappy sob of fear that tumbles from her lips.

Then there's a cacophonous crash.

Lucifer is gone.

And there's an arm-length gash in the wall to the right, starting with the bisected door frame, like he took his fist and jammed all of his panic into one swift blow.

* * *

" _There's an accident on the 405,"_ his text messages say. " _And don't bother to lecture me about texting while driving, traffic's not even moving. I'm bloody well stuck."_

" _Chloe?"_

" _Hello?"_

" _?_ "

" _All right. You can bloody lecture me if you must."_

" _Traffic's moving now. I'm still texting."_

The next message is a selfie of him at the wheel, scowling while driving. And then a picture of his speedometer. Which says 20 mph. Not fast for him, but fast for a near gridlock situation.

" _Think of the hapless civilians."_

And then he drops all pretense of humor.

" _Chloe please_. _Are you safe?_ "

It's the last message that makes her heart twist. He doesn't throw words like "please" around lightly. He'd been working himself into a worried lather for three hours while she dealt with crime scene stuff, oblivious. Her eyes water when she looks at her call history, next. Twelve calls from him, too. Twelve calls. Twelve messages. The frequency of them increases over time. Her ringer must have gotten turned off, somehow. She doesn't think she can stomach listening to his dissolution into panic right now, though. She puts her phone back into her pocket without hitting play on any of them, feeling like scum for it at the same time.

"Wow," Ella says, marveling at the damaged door frame and wall as she runs her UV light along the edges. "How did he not break his hand?"

"Do we know that he didn't?" Dan says, looking in at her from the other side of the gash. His mouth forms a little "o" as he runs a nitrile-gloved hand along the chipped paint and obliterated drywall. "Does he lift weights or something? I mean, I've seen him kick ass in a fight, but he doesn't look-"

"This is gonna be a **lot** of paperwork," Officer Cho from Vice says obliviously, shaking his head.

"And what was up with that whole universe-is-squeezing-you-through-a-tube-of-toothpaste feeling?" Ella muses. "Was that everybody, or just me?" She pauses her UV light on a splotch of blood, and Chloe's heart constricts again.

"Not just you," chimes in Amanda Adeboye, one of their investigative assistants. "Though, I'd call it more of an innards-through-a-meat-grinder feeling. Not a tube of-"

"Maybe, he's **really** the Devil," Chloe snaps, at the end of her rope.

Her words bounce off the walls, resounding in the sudden silence. She wants to scream in frustration as everyone exchanges glances, sniggering. Now, she knows how futile Lucifer has felt all these years, telling everyone over and over until he was blue in the face that he's the Devil, he's the Devil, he's the bloody freaking Devil, only to be met with laughter and ridicule.

"Look, **I'll** fill out the paperwork, okay?" Chloe continues. "Don't worry about the hole in the wall. Worry about this case." She's sure Lucifer will pay for the damages, anyway, once he calms down, but …. She dials his number, biting her lip as she stares at the bloodstain he left behind in the wall gash. Maybe, he did break his hand. Maybe, he's-

"I'm alive," he snaps without preface, as if to say, _Witness my lack of hypocrisy_. "Leave me be." He sounds like he's somewhere in a wind tunnel. Driving?

She barely has a chance to say, "Lucifer, I'm-"

And then he hangs up on her.

"-Sorry," she finishes on a glum sigh.

A lump forms in her throat. "Let's … um …." She clears her throat, trying very hard not to cry. She glances at her watch. How has it only been four hours since Mattie called? It feels like it's been eternity. "Let's finish up here, okay?"

* * *

When she pulls into the pickup line at Santa Ana Elementary, her eyes are burning from all the crying she's forced herself **not** to do. She's tired enough to be fantasizing about her head hitting the pillow later. And stress is making her muscles hurt.

Lucifer won't answer the phone again, and he's not at his penthouse. She has no idea where he is. Possibly halfway to Vegas already, in search of Candy II. Which is a horrifying thought she's trying not to entertain, but it seems to have camped out in her mental living room with the _hors d'oeuvres_ and won't leave.

She watches numbly as two laughing, skipping kids hop into the car in front of her. She inches forward to fill the empty space, and then cranes her neck, trying to see if she can spot Trixie somewhere on the school's front lawn.

Dozens of kids are walking toward the pickup area.

Some are just playing.

But … no Trixie.

Chloe glances at her watch. 5:15 p.m. Trixie should be waiting.

Maybe, she got distracted doing something fun with some of her friends.

Chloe flips on her hazard blinkers, yanks her keys from the ignition, and slides out of the car amidst a flurry of honks. But she doesn't care about the traffic. People can get around her if they want.

The balmy summer breeze billows against her as she steps onto the main walk. The school's flags flap in the wind. The chatter of playing children wraps around her like a warm cloak.

"Trixie?" she calls.

Several heads turn, and people give her curious looks. But none of the attention she garners is from Trixie.

Frowning, Chloe heads inside the building.

The hallways smell like jelly. Art projects decorate the walls from top to bottom, but she doesn't stop to scrutinize any of them. She passes a couple of empty classrooms.

Most of the kids remaining this late seem to be working on art projects in the cafeteria. Ariana, the head camp counselor, is quick to greet Chloe with a smile. "Detective Decker! What can I do for you?"

"I'm looking for my daughter. She didn't come out to the car." When Ariana gazes out over the room, visibly searching, alarms go off in Chloe's head like klaxons. "You don't know where my daughter is?"

Ariana gives her a bright, confident smile, not missing a beat. "I don't know exactly where she is," Ariana says calmly, "but I'm sure she's here somewh-"

"She weft," says a cherubic voice.

Chloe looks down to see a small black-haired boy looking up at them while sucking his thumb.

"My daughter **left**?" Chloe says.

The boy nods and points to the doorway she just walked through.

"By **herself**?" Chloe prods, trying not to let herself descend into hysterics, yet.

The boy shakes his head. "Wif a man. He was taww."

"Matthew, why didn't you **say** anything?" Ariana snaps.

The little boy shrugs.

"What did the man look like other than tall?" Chloe says.

That earns her another shrug.

"When did they leave?"

Shrug.

A tall man took Trixie. A tall man. Hope slips between her ribs like a sharp knife. Lucifer is on the list of people approved to take Trixie out of school and camp. People wouldn't bat an eyelash if they saw him. He knows he's supposed to sign Trixie out, if he picks her up, but ….

She yanks out her cellphone, frantically flipping through its picture gallery. She finds a picture of Lucifer that she took with him at the Pier. In the weeks after they'd returned from Kaniksu, they'd made a repeat beach visit. He'd been all stubbly and smiling and handsome - still super grouchy about swimming, though - and for the picture, his arms were wrapped around her. They'd had a lot of fun that day.

"Is this the man?" she says, shoving her phone at the boy. "Is this the man who took Trixie?"

But the boy shrugs again. "Own-ee saw his back."

"What was the man wearing?"

Shrug. "A t-shought."

Well, a t-shirt rules out Lucifer. Fuck. "What color t-shirt?" she says.

The kid shrugs again.

She wants to pull her hair out in frustration.

" _Do you have Trixie with you?"_ she texts Lucifer. Just in case this is the one day since before time began that he decided, _hey, a t-shirt sounds like a good fashion statement for today,_ and he changed into one after fleeing the crime scene.

" _No,"_ is his terse but at least immediate reply.

" _You didn't pick T up from camp did you?_ " she texts Dan as desperation sinks in.

He replies, " _No you said you were_. _Did I misunderstand?_ "

A barbed, upset sigh falls from her lips as she pulls her fingers through her hair. It's happening again. **How in the hell is this happening again**?

"Let's … let's … calm down," Ariana says shakily, taking a deep breath. "We'll search. We'll take another roll. This sort of thing happens. I'm **sure** that we'll find her."

* * *

They don't find her.

The camp doesn't have Trixie. She's nowhere on the school grounds that anybody can discern. An Amber Alert is already on blast. Practically the whole of Chloe's precinct is out canvassing the neighborhood, Dan included. Maze is pounding pavement, too.

Meanwhile, Chloe checks all of Trixie's favorite haunts. Home, first. The ice cream shop she likes. The library. The playground. The beach. The ferris wheel on the Pier. Home again. She calls all of Trixie's friends, even the ones Trixie hasn't spent any time with in months, but no one has seen her.

Chloe collapses onto her couch, eyes puffy, head aching, ideas exhausted.

With a sniff, she pulls out her cellphone.

She gets Lucifer to pick up on the eighth call in four minutes. Finally.

"Lucifer, please, don't hang up!" she blurts before he can snap at her to leave him alone.

The desperation in her tone must tug at his heartstrings, because he says, "… What is it?"

"I can't find Trixie. She's not at camp. Someone said she left with a tall man. I was hoping it was you, but it wasn't. I'm-" At which point, she can't hold it together anymore. She practically sobs into the phone, "Lucifer, Trixie is gone, and I can't find her. Nobody can find her. I know you're upset with me, but I could really use-"

"I'll call some people," he says, dark as the Abyss.

It's a tone that makes her think he's going to have every single headhunter and gangbanger in LA's underworld looking for Trixie in a matter of minutes. She doesn't doubt he has that kind of pull when he wants to use it. And she's never been so black and white that she wouldn't accept that kind of aid in a dire situation.

"Should I send you a picture to give them?" she says.

"I've got one."

She frowns. He keeps a picture of Trixie? He keeps a picture? She's not seen a single picture in his penthouse. Ever. Not on his nightstand. Not on his mantel. He's not sentimental. Or ….

Maybe, he's just never had anyone to be sentimental about.

"Do I … owe you a favor?" she says, swallowing.

A long, **long** pause follows. And then he admits in a soft voice, "Never, Chloe."

She blinks out tears. "Can you … make your calls from here?"

"Where are you?" he says.

"Home."

There's a bluster of motion on the other end of the line. "I'll pop right over."

And then he hangs up.


	5. Coloring Outside the Lines

_**Afterglow (Coloring Outside the Lines)**_

 **Author's Notes:**

Thank you so much, as always, for all the lovely feedback :)

Chapter title credit goes to MisterWives.

Enjoy!

* * *

She's parked on the couch in her empty living room, staring at the door with the phone in her lap, when the doorknob begins to turn. A cluster bomb of anxious hoping explodes inside of her, until she sees a wingtip shoe, and then an expensive pant leg, and then Lucifer in full relief. He looks at her without speaking, though his head tips to the side, his lips purse, and his gaze is an outpouring of turmoil.

"Hi," she says.

"Hello, darling."

After shutting the door softly behind him, he closes the distance between them in three ground-eating strides. The sofa cushion beside her dips as his weight settles onto it. He pulls her into his arms. She sinks against his body, pressing her nose into the lapel of his sport coat. He smells of sandalwood mixed with just a touch of vanilla, and as the familiar scent winds through her lungs, she closes her eyes, and her muscles all go slack. Just for a moment.

"I've already called everyone relevant in my ledger," he assures her. "Anyone in the city with eyes who owes me something is out looking."

She wonders how much of his social capital he just blew for her - for Trixie - all _gratis_. "Thank you," she says with a sniff. "Lucifer, **thank you**." Then she frowns, looking up at him. "You keep a ledger? For favors?"

"Well, I remember them all, of course," he says. "But it's important to have a backup in this day and age. Have you any concept of how many favors I'm owed?"

"I know, it's just …." She shakes her head. "You don't really strike me as a guy who likes to do accounting."

"It's a necessary evil," he admits with an unhappy look.

"When do you even have time?"

"I don't sleep except to pass the hours, unless you've somehow gotten me maimed," he says with a teasing glint in his eye as he strokes her back. "Remember?"

"Oh. Right." She swallows. Sniffs. And then she remembers the telltale bloodstain on the wall he'd punched into ruin. She looks at the hand he's resting on his leg and sees nothing troubling. She twists to grab the hand he's rubbing between her shoulder blades. When her fingers wrap around his palm, his soothing motions stop. Wordless, he lets her pull his arm over her shoulder, forcing his hand into her view. The black stone set in his ring almost seems to ooze like oil. But she's not doing this to inspect his ring. She's looking for- Sure enough, there's a wide, jagged wasteland of broken skin - so wide she can't fathom why the cut isn't bleeding. The damaged area extends from the knuckle where his middle finger meets his hand to …. She can't even see where the wound terminates, because it snakes along his wrist and disappears underneath his sleeve. He looks like he almost degloved himself. And this is **hours** after the fact. On an archangel who heals earthly injury as easily a human would recover from tripping over a pebble. Her eyes water. "You didn't break it, did you?"

"That's neither here nor there," he assures her.

Which in Lucifer speak probably means he broke it like a dry twig, thanks to her. No wonder he fled.

Her lower lip trembles, and her eyes spill over. "I'm so sorry. For all the maiming, I mean."

But all he says is, "Hush." He kisses the top of her head and withdraws his hand. "That I choose to be around you despite the risks to myself is not your fault. And I'll not let you blame yourself for **my** actions, all right? This road literally leads to Hell if you travel it often enough, and I bloody won't have it."

"But-"

" **Stop** ," he snaps, bristling beside her, and she stills with a sniff. His hand returns to the space between her shoulder blades, and he resumes his soothing. Then, in a soft, sepulchral tone, he says, "Stop, Chloe. I demand very little of you, but I will demand this."

In that command, she Hears him. The Light Bringer. The Will. Second only to God.

She Listens.

And in the resolution of that guilt, the real subject of her grief and self-blame returns. Her whole body starts to shake.

"Why does this keep happening to me?" she whispers.

"Because my dad is a bloody bastard." _Full stop,_ he'd said. _The answer to life, the universe, and everything._ "And he didn't design this reality with fairness in mind, unfortunately."

"I want my baby back," she says, barely an upset croak, as tears leak down her face.

He pulls his fingers through her hair. "And you will have her. You have my word, and my word is my bond."

She's too tired, though, to make much of his promise. She's too tired for anything. Her body is wasted. Her mind is a wasteland.

But his presence beside her is a bastion.

Officially blessed or not, she's warm, and she's safe, and she's loved.

She closes her eyes.

"You won't go anywhere?" she asks, pressing her nose against his chest.

His embrace tightens. "Not tonight."

She falls asleep in moments.

* * *

She's pulled awake from a dreamless sleep by a knock at the door. She has no idea how long it's been, except that the lamps are on, so it must be dark outside. Either late. Or early. At some point, Lucifer moved out from under her, but as promised, he hasn't left. She opens her eyes enough to watch him through her eyelashes. He prowls across the floor to greet whoever's on the front stoop. Probably Dan.

But it's not Dan.

"Lucifer!" cries Trixie. Her hair and clothes and face are covered in russet-colored dust.

"What in the bloody hell are **you** doing here?" he snaps, grunting softly as Trixie wraps her arms around his leg. He gives her an absent pat on the head.

Why would he curse at Trix- Chloe ricochets into an upright position and scrubs frantically at her face. For a moment, she thinks she's seeing double, and then she realizes she's not seeing double at all. She's seeing Michael. And Lucifer. A mere three feet apart. The only time she's seen them that close together, they were hellbent on killing each other. But then it really sinks in that Trixie is home, and she stops worrying about the angels in the room.

"Monkey!" Chloe says, barely a gasp as she vaults off the couch. Trixie releases Lucifer and latches onto Chloe, instead. The feel of Trixie's warm little body brings tears to Chloe's eyes all over again. "You're back! Oh, my God, you're back!" And then a jagged knife of frustration slams into her gut. "Where **were** you?"

"Mommy, it was **so** cool!" Trixie says, buzzing with so much verve she can't seem to hold still.

Chloe looks up over Trixie's head at the still silent Michael. "Did you find her for me?" And then she looks at Lucifer. "Did you pray to-"

"I bloody well did **not** pray!" Lucifer scoffs as he bends to brush off the dusty face prints Trixie left on his slacks. He directs a disgusted look at Michael. "And will you stop being a bloody teacher's pet and explain? Speak! It's not as though I'm in a position to tattle on you."

But Michael says nothing. Only nods at her.

She notes Michael's t-shirt. He's changed since yesterday. There's a marijuana leaf emblazoned on his chest, and below it are the words, " _And God said, Behold, I have given you every herb bearing seed… Genesis 1:29._ " She has a chance to blink.

He's gone in the time it takes her eyelids to crash together and open again.

"Mars is **so** cool," Trixie says, directing a toothy grin at the both of them. "Will you guys come, too, next time?"

Chloe blinks again. "… Next time?" Wait. " **Mars**?"

"Bloody hell," Lucifer mutters under his breath. "I'll **kill** him for this. I'll rip him limb from-"

"He took me there!" Trixie says, eyes alight with flames of excitement. She bounces on her feet. "He let me draw my name in the dirt, and we played hopscotch with some pennies, and we even voted for President."

"Voted …?" Chloe says weakly.

Trixie nods. "I'm President of Mars by a 2-0 landslide! He said we could go back whenever I want. Which is good, because we didn't have time to write the Constitution, yet." She looks at Lucifer. "You can't kill him, Lucifer! He was really nice!"

"I meant it figuratively," Lucifer grumbles through clenched teeth. "Except for the ripping him limb from limb part."

"What do you **mean** he was really nice?" Chloe says, ignoring Lucifer. "When did …? **How** …?"

"I prayed because Daddy was sick, and I didn't know what to do, and then he came, and I thought he was Lucifer, but he's not Lucifer. He's different."

"Different," Lucifer says with a derisive snort. "That's … accurate."

"'I am not Lucifer, I am Michael,' he said." As part of her imitation, Trixie folds her arms and wears a pretty convincing scowl, though her excitement overwrites it as she continues babbling, "He rode in the ambulance with me and Daddy. And he sat with me and tried some of my cake while I was waiting at the hospital, and then he read part of _The Sorcerer's Stone_ to me when I couldn't sleep." A frown crosses her face. "He didn't do the voices very well, but he tried. We were going to read the rest, but then he said he didn't think the later books were good for sad people, and I was sad, so we started watching _My Little Pony_ instead - he likes Rainbow Dash the best - and **then** -"

"Wait," Chloe says, shaking her head. "Wait a sec."

"What?"

"Michael. Sword of God. Took you to **Mars**?"

"Yes!" Trixie exclaims, shaking clouds of reddish-brown dust into the air as she hops up and down. She continues, "Isn't it **cool**?" as Lucifer steps away from the billowing detritus, lip curled in distaste. " **It's so cool**."

Chloe swallows. "Yeah. Cool. Really." Her body is starting to shake. She looks up at Lucifer. "… How in the hell did she not suffocate …? Do you have some kind of divine aura?"

Lucifer gives her a long, considering look. "Well, he can't change reality like I can; he can only shift it," Lucifer says slowly. "He is the Power of the Demiurge, not the Will, after all." Lucifer sighs. "I'd imagine he stole some oxygen from elsewhere."

"… Stole …." She gulps down a breath. "As in he was like, 'Oh, hey, I'll just take the atmosphere of this planet over here, and I'll move it over to this planet over there, and-'"

"Yes, precisely." Lucifer frowns. "Darling, are you quite all right?"

How in the fuck is this her life?

How is the possibility of her kid being abducted and taken to Mars by an archangel even a fucking **thing**?

She takes a deep breath and blows it out through her teeth. She counts to ten. She hugs Trixie so tightly that Trixie starts to complain about being squished. And then she says, voice quivering with the avalanche she's trying to hold at bay, "Trixie, I'm very glad that you had a fun time, but you **have** to tell me when you're going somewhere we haven't planned."

Trixie frowns. "But … he's an angel, Mommy."

"I don't care if he's **God** -"

"He bloody **wishes** ," Lucifer interjects. "Prat."

Chloe glares up at Lucifer, who decides in that moment that his ring is far more interesting than she is to look at. Whatever. She turns back to Trixie. "If you're going somewhere unexpected, you call me or text me, and you **tell me**. Or Daddy. Or even Lucifer in an emergency. But make sure it's okay, first."

Trixie looks stricken. "I'm sorry. I thought it was okay because-"

"Because Michael," Chloe says, glowering. "I know." She takes another deep breath. "Well, it's **not** okay. It's …." Another breath. Another breath. "Look, you're safe." Another breath. "That's all that matters." Another breath. "I'm glad you're home." She glances at her watch. "Why don't you go take a shower-" And wash all the Mars dust down the drain. **Mars dust**. She thinks if anyone at NASA knew about this disaster, they'd have her tarred and feathered. And what the hell are they going to think when the next Rover finds a hopscotch court and US pennies in what's supposed to be alien dirt? And that's not even mentioning the suddenly breathable atmosphere. **Shit.** "-and get ready for bed. Okay?"

"Kay," Trixie says, and she trudges off toward the bathroom.

For a moment, silence stretches.

"... Shall I call off the searches?" Lucifer offers hesitantly as he inches toward the phone.

"Thanks," Chloe says. She grinds her teeth. "I have something I need to do."

"I recommend going at least a mile."

She frowns. "What?"

"To froth at Michael," Lucifer says reasonably. He's … a lot more perceptive than she gives him credit for, sometimes. "He'll not show up voluntarily if I'm around, what with Dad's silly see-no-evil rule."

Right. Of course.

Lucifer's eyebrows rise toward his hairline. "Unless you'd prefer me to vacate?"

"No," she says. As quick as the crack of a whip. "No, don't. Stay. Please. I want you here."

"All right."

"You'll watch Trixie? You don't have to do anything but make sure she goes to bed once she's clean."

He seems about as thrilled by the idea of playing babysitter as he would be of giving Michael a hug. But he also seems to understand that this isn't a request, so much as something that she needs. "Yes," he says with a nod, "I promise to see your little miscreant off to the Dreaming."

"Thanks," she replies.

"You're quite welcome," he says.

She picks up her purse and keys and heads toward the door.

* * *

She decides on the beach for this confrontation. It empties out by early morning, and the sound of the waves and wind tend to dampen any other noise. Which means she'll have some space to scream without people calling the police.

She rolls her car into one of the many empty parking spaces in the beach lot. The parking lot only has one other car in it - unoccupied from the looks of it. She throws her shoes and socks onto the front passenger seat and climbs out. The sound of the surf fills the air, and the cold breeze brings with it a bitter chill.

She shivers, hunkering down in her windbreaker as she heads out onto the beach.

Cold sand sifts between her toes.

When she reaches a point about halfway between the parking lot and the water, she glances around to confirm she's alone. Then she folds her hands together and closes her eyes, like she's seen Lucifer do on occasion, and she prays, "Michael, I want to talk to you. Now. Please, come back."

She waits for a few minutes, pacing as she watches the crack and crash of the surf. When Michael doesn't appear, she adds, "Come on, Michael. Lucifer isn't anywhere near here. You have no excuse."

But still no Michael.

She watches the moon on the horizon. The cloudy haze gives it a bit of an ethereal glow, and light turns the water a shimmering silver color. The waves froth and churn closer to shore, but near the horizon, it's like looking at a plate of mirror glass.

"Michael," she says with an irritated sigh, "if you don't come back this instant, I'm going to pray _99 Bottles of Beer_ at you all the way into my afterlife. I'm not kidding around. You will **literally** need Azrael's blade to shut me up. Except … oh, wait, you don't have it!"

The seconds pass. She counts them.

"What is _99 Bottles of Beer_?" comes a deep voice from behind her, just as she's reaching thirty-two.

She turns to find him standing there, arms folded over his _Yay Marijuana!_ shirt. He's almost luminescent, and the moon only serves to magnify the effect. His beautiful wings sweep out behind him like holy blades. The tips of his feathers barely keep from brushing the damp sand.

"It's a song that'll get into your head and never leave it," she says, chest aching at the sight of him. Of Them. "You're better off not knowing."

"Ah," he says, though he doesn't appear any less confused.

She looks at him. "Michael, what you did today-"

"Your gratitude is noted," he says with a regal nod.

"Pardon?"

"Your gratitude is noted," he repeats.

She gapes. "Are you fucking kidding me?"

He frowns. "Do I seem facetious?"

"God, you are such an **asshole**!"

"I am not God," he says, tilting his head quizzically. "I am-"

"An **asshole** ," she snaps. "Do you have **any** idea what you put me through today? Any idea at **all**?"

His frown deepens. "I assisted the offspring in vanquishing her demons. I thought you would be pleased that she has been returned to equilibrium."

"I'm thrilled that she's happy," Chloe says. "That's **not** the fucking problem."

His mouth opens and closes. He shifts from foot to foot. She's actually ruffled him, it seems.

"Don't you **ever** take my kid somewhere without asking me, first," she yells at him. "Don't you **ever**!"

"I …." He blinks. "I did not intend to cause pain."

"I thought she was kidnapped!" Hell, she **was** kidnapped. Not nefariously, as it turns out, but she was. "I thought she might be dead!"

He flaps his wings and folds them away from reality, leaving them bathed by only the soft glow of the moonlight. Her heart untwists. She's still pissed, though. She's still …. A wave of red hot magma burbles in her chest, and she shoves him so hard, screams so hard, that she sees funny colors.

" **I thought my baby might be dead!** "

He doesn't budge when she shoves him, of course. Which only makes the magma burn hotter. Brighter. Until it's burning her out from the inside, and every breath is a lick of flames. She puts her shoulder down and bowls into him this time. A human would be knocked flat. He only sways on his feet.

" **YOU ASSHOLE** ," she howls into the ocean breeze.

What she doesn't expect, though, is when he wraps his arms around her. He's warm and solid - just like Lucifer. His touch is gentle. Just like Lucifer. "I am sorry," he says against her ear, a soft murmur. "It was not my intent to cause pain. Quite the opposite."

A twisting not-syllable coils in her throat as she expresses her misery.

His embrace tightens around her.

The world becomes the epicenter of a supernova, just for a moment.

All of the black, ugly emotions wrought by the past few hours slip away on the wind, disappearing into the recession of the waves.

"Be at peace, Chloe Decker," he soothes hypnotically.

His divinity fills her to the brim as though she were a pitcher he could pour it into.

She has no room left to feel bad.

Not when she's this whole.

And she gets it, then. How this arrogant, abrasive man can be an angel of myth. A protector of humankind.

 _I do not understand him,_ she recalls Michael saying of Lucifer. _I do not_ _ **like**_ _him. But I do love him._

Michael Demiurgos might not understand people. He might not like them. But he doesn't need to. People, like Lucifer, are a product of God's will. And Michael loves them. He loves them with his whole heart.

Of course, he would. That's what he was built to do.

He is the perfect holy soldier.

"Michael," she says. She realizes she's crying. "I …."

His embrace is a balm. He smells like sunshine on a spring day, if such a cologne were possible. She can't help but go slack in his arms.

Until, at last, he subsides and steps away.

"Thank you," she croaks, hiccoughing as he lets her go.

He doesn't say anything about noting her gratitude this time. He only nods and tells her, "I will inform you of any future excursions with your spawn. You have my solemn oath."

"You mean, you'll **ask me for permission** regarding any future excursions with my daughter," she corrects him.

That gets him to squirm a little. He looks like he has a bad case of indigestion. "… Yes," he says, "… … I will … do this," as though every word brings him pain, and he marks the end of his declaration with a clipped little sigh.

But … at least he said it. And he seems sincere.

Chloe nods. "That's all I ask."

They stand side by side in silence for a moment, watching the silver, churning surf. She thinks back over the past few days. Since Dan collapsed. All of the little clues she missed.

 _Hello again,_ the ER receptionist had greeted Lucifer, and at the time, she'd assumed the poor man was just frazzled, but …. Hell, she wonders if the subject of that stack of drawings Dan had made with Trixie was really Lucifer. It's not like Trixie had ever actually seen Lucifer's wings. Michael, though … he tended to flash them around like a fucking neon sign.

"That nightmare," Chloe says, thinking wildly. "When Trixie was screaming and screaming, and then she was fine. You be-at-peaced her. So she could sleep."

He replies with a slow nod, "I did."

And then she remembers yesterday morning. _You. Answer prayers._ Dan's incredulity had been overflowing.

"I thought you said most prayers are below your pay grade," she says, frowning.

Michael looks at her, one eyebrow quirked, as if to say, _And what does that tell you_?

"You're …." Chloe clears her throat. "You're really her guardian angel?"

He shrugs. "She requested one. Father thought it prudent to deliver, in this case."

"What for?" Chloe says. "I mean, there's nothing left for me to catalyze, so I'm not special, anymore, and Trixie's-"

"I am not omniscient, Chloe Decker. I cannot tell you what I do not know." He gives her a long, discerning look. His gaze is infinite, and she feels like gravity is leaving her for a moment before everything snaps back into place. He adds, "I do know that you are still special."

She blinks. "… What?"

"You will never not be a miracle," he explains with a shrug. "This is not a state that fades."

Oh.

She doesn't know what to make of that. Of any of this. "How long does this guardian gig last?"

Michael gives her another shrug. "Until God tells me not to."

"O … kay," Chloe replies, trying to process. It's … kind of a comforting idea, actually. Knowing that not just one, but both halves of the Demiurge, would literally move Heaven and Earth for her daughter. "You should … come to dinner, sometimes, then," she suggests. "I'll make sure Lucifer isn't around."

"I do not eat," is Michael's bland reply.

"Didn't you share some cake with Trixie?"

When an answer doesn't seem to be forthcoming, she looks over at-

He's gone again.

She rolls her eyes.

Of course, he's gone again.

Clearly, this bizarre relationship still needs work.

She sighs, shaking her head as she trudges back to her car.

* * *

When Chloe gets back to the apartment, everything is still and dark and silent, save for the nighttime breeze causing the venetian blinds to thunk against the window sills with a haphazard rhythm. She has a brief moment of panic upon being greeted by an empty living room, until she finds them both in Trixie's bedroom.

Lucifer, who is far too big to be contained by Trixie's twin-sized bed, is folded awkwardly at the headboard, his head tipped back against the wall, one long leg dangling off the edge of the mattress, Trixie's copy of _The Sorcerer's Stone_ cracked open against his chest. Trixie is curled up underneath his arm, leaving a huge spot of drool on his shirtsleeve. They're both sound asleep.

It's the most heartwarming, heart-wrenching sight Chloe has ever seen, and she can't help but stand at the threshold and watch. Just … watch. Her monkey and her morning star.

For Lucifer to be asleep means he was a lot more stressed than even she thought.

And Trixie …. Well, it's hard for Chloe to convince herself not to run over to the bed, scoop her daughter up, and never let go.

"Hi, Mommy," Trixie whispers, squinting muzzily at the doorway.

Chloe bites her lip and waves.

"He does the voices better," Trixie mumbles. Then she rolls her face against his silk lapel and closes her eyes again.

Chloe leaves them to their dreams.

* * *

In the morning, Lucifer is gone, and she's not sure what to make of his absence. He didn't leave a note. Or wake her up to kiss her goodbye. Or anything. Maybe, he's resumed taking his space, now that her life is back in order.

" _Why did you leave?"_ she texts him while Trixie packs her things for camp. " _Are we okay?"_

" _Meeting my supplier,"_ is his reply.

She has just a moment to goggle before he adds, " _Of wine, not cocaine."_

" _I knew that,"_ she rushes to type.

And he responds, " _Of course you did_. _{Devil emoji}_ "

Which seems innocuous enough. Except for the part where he doesn't answer her query about whether they're okay. Which, when it comes to Lucifer, is … troublesome. He doesn't "forget" to answer questions. His silences are never not pointed. And she knows they need to talk, but-

"Mommy, we're gonna be late!" Trixie says, standing by the front door with her little pink backpack perched on her shoulder.

Chloe slips her phone into her pocket. "I'm coming, Miss President! Goodness!"

Trixie giggles and skips out the door toward the car.

* * *

"So, we have a suicide note that appears to be written by Winslow," Chloe says, holding up her thumb as she surveys their murder board in the conference room. "We have a box of shotgun shells from Winslow's apartment that matches the murder weapon." She raises her index finger. "We know the weapon came from a place Winslow has access to and visits regularly." Middle finger. "We have a suspicious-looking instagram." Ring finger. "And, thanks to his 911 call, we know Winslow was in the vicinity of Angelo at his time of death." Pinky finger.

"That about sums it," Ella says from her chair by the conference table. She grabs another handful of popcorn from her microwave bag and dumps the handful into her mouth.

Dan and Emily, both sitting on the other side of the table, each give Ella a look.

"What?" Ella says. "It's not a commentary on the entertainment value of the case. I'm hungry."

Chloe taps the murder board with her dry-erase marker. "So," she begins, and all eyes turn back to her, "a lot of the evidence is circumstantial, however, it's also a lot of evidence." She still has to do some follow-up work. Namely, dropping by Tom's Guns & Ammo for a real interview. But …, "I think it's at least enough to charge him."

"Yeah," Emily says, nodding, "I agree. Are you gonna pitch the prosecutor?"

Chloe shrugs. "Unless you want to."

"Oh, that's all you," Emily says with a grin, glancing at her watch. "Speaking of which, you'd better get a move on. Not much time left before we have to charge him or cut him loose." She rises out of her chair, leans across the conference table, and nabs some of Ella's popcorn. The sound of crunching fills the small room, and then she adds a mumbly, "Ooh, are these jalapeño?" around her bulging mouthful.

"Aren't they good?" Ella exclaims, brightening.

Dan clears his throat. "I think the only way we could make this case more solid is-"

"A confession?" says Lucifer as he strides into the room like he owns it.

Chloe blinks. "I thought you had work to do at Lux."

"I did have work to do at Lux," he replies with a nod. "And, now, I've done it. So, here I am." He frowns. "Unless you don't want my assis-"

"Hey, if you think you can get Winslow to confess, have at it," Chloe says, holding up her hands in a placating gesture. She'd tried to get a confession as a capper. Something more definitively hand-in-the-cookie-jar. But Winslow had been nothing but belligerent when Chloe had tried to talk to him, and she had given up after about two hours of interrogation that morning. "He hasn't lawyered up, yet. And a confession would make this a slam dunk."

"A slam dunk, is it." His eyes gleam as a predatory smile oozes across his face. "I'll get you what you desire."

"I knew there was a reason to have popcorn!" Ella says, pumping her fist. "You go, Lucy."

Lucifer's eyes narrow.

"Fer," Ella continues. She swallows her mouthful with a gulp.

The five of them head to the interrogation room

* * *

Winslow, it turns out, is one of the "simple" ones, and Lucifer has him spilling his guts in about two seconds flat. All Lucifer has to do is lean forward with a rapacious grin and say, "Tell me, Winslow, what is it-" And before Lucifer can even speak the words "that you desire," Winslow's babbling like a damned brook about Mattie and murder plots and jealousy. It's like he thinks he'll get bonus points for each broken Commandment.

Lucifer directs a haughty gaze in their direction, meeting each of their eyes in turn, like he can see through the one-way glass. "Your turn, Detectives," he announces smoothly, giving the mirror a little bow and a flourish. The intercom makes his voice sound tinny and less rich.

"I will never understand how he does that," Dan says, shaking is head.

"I think he's a mentalist," Ella muses. "Like that guy. On that show."

" _The Mentalist_?" Emily suggests, rolling her eyes.

"Yeah, that one. He just reads people really well."

Chloe sighs. "Or he's really the Devil."

And, of course, everybody laughs. She's starting to realize how perfect his camouflage is. Even she can state the truth **for** him, without an ounce of facetious whimsy in her tone, and people still think it's a joke.

She turns to watch him as he exits the interrogation room. All long lines and graceful symmetry. His gaze softens into something affectionate when he lays eyes on her, but his eyes themselves remain old. Too old for such a young-looking body. And he moves with a leonine quality that humans couldn't ever hope to duplicate.

She has no idea how she ever believed in the "joke."

She's glad she doesn't anymore.

"I've got to run," he says as he closes the gap between them all. "Another meeting."

"Cocaine this time?" she kids.

"Produce."

"For Lux?" she says, frowning.

"Cocktails, darling," he replies patiently. "Like your strawberry daiquiris."

"Oh," she says, blushing. "Right. I knew that."

He grins. "Give me time. I **will** get those straight laces of yours to crimp a bit at some point."

Then he turns on his heels to go. But not before she grabs his wrist. He stops and gives her a quizzical look over his shoulder.

"Lucifer, we really need to talk," she says. "About …." She takes a breath. "About …."

The corner of his lip twitches, and his eyes narrow, but she can't read his expression. "... Yes," he admits. "I know I've been a bit …." He struggles for a word and doesn't find one that suits.

"... Infuriating?" she supplies hesitantly.

Though she doesn't mean for it to, her choice of words stings him. Deeply. She can see it in the way his expression shutters. She can feel it in the sudden figurative gulf expanding between them. But he doesn't refute her assessment. "Stop by Lux later, if you wish," he replies. "After midnight, if possible. Before that, I'll be … entertaining."

She wants to say more, but Winslow starts screaming like a banshee from the interrogation room, demanding he be let out. Chloe's attention is stolen long enough that when she turns back to Lucifer, he's gone. She runs to the end of the hallway and catches sight of him in profile walking up the steps. Then he disappears around the corner, out of sight, a whisper in the bedlam.

She can't help the sinking feeling in her gut that this is the beginning.

Of what?

She doesn't know.

She hopes not the end.


	6. Spectrum

_**Afterglow (Spectrum)**_

 **Author's Notes:**

Well, here we are! The final chapter! Thank you so much, everybody, for the comments - I deeply appreciate everyone who's taken the time to leave one. If you've been saving up, this is officially your last chance for this story. I really hope you guys enjoy this - at last, Chloe & Lucifer discuss their relationship :)

Chapter title credit goes to Florence & the Machine.

I don't view Chloe inviting Michael for dinner as a betrayal of **any sort**. She's keeping tabs on a person who a) is interacting with her daughter and b) she knows she can't get rid of. She's being a good mom. And if you'll recall in chapter 2, Chloe has been 100% honest with Lucifer from the start about Michael's presence, and beyond being worried about Chloe's safety, Lucifer didn't have much to say about it. Lucifer and Michael don't see eye to eye on most things, but that doesn't mean they hate each other. They don't. One of the recurring themes in both this story and in ATWL is Michael's ability to love a thing without liking it. I feel Lucifer, being built from a similar cloth, is probably on a similar spectrum. And you'll recall in ATWL, Michael reconstituted Lucifer's ring, and when Chloe observed that Michael was still finding loopholes, Lucifer's response was a wistful look, not an angry or hateful one. Just my two cents on that.

Anyway, I hope you enjoy this. Until next time!

* * *

She waits until after 1:30 a.m., until the bartender usually starts doing last call, before heading to Lux, and by the time she arrives, only a few people remain in the club, still mingling. Lucifer's grand piano sits empty under a harsh spotlight, an empty tumbler and a used ashtray left on top of the lid. She waves to the bartender as she walks past, not pausing to gauge his reaction, and steps into Lucifer's private elevator.

As the elevator doors trundle open, she's greeted by darkness, save for a bare strip of flickering light at the base of his fireplace. At first, she doesn't even see him. His black silk robe blends him into the shadows, almost like camouflage. He's facing away from her, leaning, one elbow resting on his mantel.

She steps off the elevator and onto his Italian marble floors, frowning when he doesn't turn around to greet her.

Two more steps, though, and her viewing angle shifts enough to reveal the object of his fixation.

He's staring at the feather again. The long white primary feather with the bent tip. Or, well, staring into the darkness beyond the feather, at least. Staring into the void again.

It's not until she puts her palm at the small of his back and says, "Hey," that he reanimates.

He glances at her, expression unreadable. "Hello, darling," he says. "Shall we go outside? I'd like to be under the stars for this."

He sets the feather down on the mantel beside him, and without waiting for an answer, he strides out to the balcony, into the night. She follows. The stars are brilliant tonight, despite the purple light pollution that always keeps Los Angeles in its grip. Lucifer leans against the railing, looking down as if pondering how far it would be to fall. And then he looks back at her with a brittle smile.

"Well?" he says as she settles beside him.

"Well, what?"

He shrugs. "Is this not where you unleash on me?"

"Lucifer, I'm not here to yell," she says. "Where in the hell did you get that idea?"

He frowns at her, gaze incredulous, as if to say … _darling, you just answered your own question_. Aloud, he adds, "You said I was infuriating."

"Well, yes, but that doesn't mean …." And that's when she realizes. As convinced as she's been that he's going to give up on her, he's been convinced she's going to give up on him. He's been waiting for the other shoe to drop, just like she's been doing. "Lucifer, I came to straighten things out with you, not twist things into yet more knots. What would be the point of yelling?"

He shrugs. "It's … what I know."

And, of course, it is, for someone with his history. Of course, Satan would assume their relationship would end in vice. He as much as said it, earlier. _If I know anything of humanity, I know its vices._

A lump forms in her throat.

With the way he projects his jaded, force-of-nature front, it's hard to remember, sometimes, that there are still some things he's brand new at. Like being loved unconditionally.

She wraps her arms around his waist and leans against him. He pulls her into an embrace like it's reflexive. He strokes her hair. "I don't want to yell," she repeats. "I just want us to be okay." She swallows. "Are we okay?"

When he doesn't immediately answer, she rushes to add, "I mean it feels like you want nothing more than to bubble wrap me, lately, and you're seeming less and less happy, and …." She swallows, pulling away to gauge his reaction, but she can't. "Am I too mortal for you? Is that it? You don't want to love a human who could up and die on you at any moment? Being involved with me is too much stress?"

His mouth opens. Closes. Opens. Closes. Syllables catch in his throat and die. No words escape the pull of his event horizon.

"Or … is it the feather?" she says, grasping at straws. "You're thinking of falling, and you can't reconcile yourself with being so breakable all the time? Is it something like that?"

"Is … that what you think?" he says, tone nothing short of shocked. "You think that …."

"Well, what am I **supposed** to think, Lucifer? It's not like you've given me much to work with, here."

The silence stretches again. He stares into space, fingers tightening around the balcony railing as his whole body tenses up. Like he's getting ready to jump or something.

"Lucifer," she says, pulling a tent of his robe between her fingers and clenching with all her might. "Lucifer, what's-"

"Loving you is my one desire," he says quietly.

She blinks, looking up at him. His **one** desire? "What …?"

He turns to her. "Chloe, darling, you're not too **anything** to me."

Except he's making that sound like a bad thing. And she's not sure what to make of any of this. At all. "But … what happened to free will?" she says, floundering. "The feather?"

"I can't use the feather to fall," he says.

"You don't want to?"

"I **can't** ," he repeats more forcefully.

She frowns. "It … doesn't work?"

He shakes his head. "Of course, it works," he says with a hint of impatience. "It's just …." He peers at her, grasping for words. The sinking, resigned, you-make-me-so-happy-it-bloody- **hurts** look that he gives her is enough to make her eyes water. "It's. You're." A clipped sigh falls from his lips. "You're quite fragile, and I can't …." But whatever he "can't," he doesn't say. His eyes look wet as he resumes staring into space - at the millions of twinkling city lights, all speckling the horizon like fireflies.

Traffic noise filters up from the street below. Someone lays on their horn for a solid, five-second burst. People start yelling. She hears a faint, "Fuck you, asshole!" Los Angeles at its finest.

Wincing, she looks up at Lucifer. "Please, don't tell me you're saving the feather to heal me from some 'maybe' car crash." She grits her teeth. "Lucifer, don't do that. You **can't** do that. You can't give up your eons-long dream just to protect yourself from a maybe."

He shifts from foot to foot. "I'm not giving anything up."

"Then what are you talking ab-"

"I will never go to Heaven," he snaps, interrupting her. "Do you understand this?"

O … kay. Not exactly what she was expecting. Her eyebrows knit. "… So?"

"So, even if I were to use the feather this instant to fall and become mortal, it wouldn't matter. Dad has made it clear that I am **not** welcome in the Silver City, and when I die, I'll not go there."

"I thought humans pick where they go via guilt or an absence thereof."

"That's how it will work for **you** ," he says. He kisses her. "But my path is set toward damnation, no matter what species I am. You will go to Heaven. I will go to Hell. And we'll be ... parted."

"Are you **sure** of that?" she says. "Or is this more educated guessing?"

"I'm sure that you'll die," he says. He gives her a sad look. "Today from a car crash. Tomorrow from a lightning strike. A year from now from cancer. Decades from now from old age. Your death **will** happen. Humans die. They **all** die. Which never bothered me before, but …." He looks at the railing. "Now, it does."

"Lucifer," she says as the lump in her throat expands, "dying is part of life."

"Not mine," he says.

"But it **is** going to be a part of mine," she says gently. "That's just-"

"It doesn't have to be."

She stills. "Lucifer …."

"It **doesn't** ," he repeats.

"What are you saying?"

He gives her an incredulous look. "What do you bloody think I'm saying?"

Her heart starts to pound. "You want to use the feather to … resurrect me? To … to be with you? But you said you weren't saving it for a car-"

"I'm bloody well **not** ," he insists, cutting her off. He sways back and forth on his feet like he might erupt at any moment. "A resurrection wouldn't fix the fundamental problem."

"The fundamental …," she parrots.

"A resurrection would grant a reprieve, yes," he says with a nod. "But not provide a solution. I want the feather to be a solution."

Then what …? "I … don't understand."

"I'm saying I could make you immortal, Chloe."

The words drop like a gavel, leaving her stunned.

"I told you once that I'm neither omniscient nor prescient," he says. "I can't create something from nothing. I can't die of old age or illness."

"And that's it," she says, distant, echoing memory.

"That's it," he confirms with another nod. "As long as I haven't expended the one remaining feather, I can do … quite literally … almost anything."

She swallows. "And you could make me immortal."

"I am the Will, Chloe," he says, looking down at her with all of his stars alight in his eyes. "I can shape reality as I see fit. It is my divine purview. It is why I am. Who God made me to be. Of course, I can make you immortal."

"Lucifer, I …." She swallows. What does she even say to something like this? She ….

"It's not a role I ever sought, and it's not a role I ever envisioned fulfilling again, whether Dad demanded it of me or not," Lucifer continues softly. "But I would happily take up the mantle for this one final task. To serve as the spur in your becoming." He looks at her, unblinking, fathomless. "Chloe, it would be my joy."

His joy. His one desire. His …. Breaths tighten in her chest. Everything is sliding out from underneath her.

"… I'd b-be … like you?" A grounded, weakened angel.

"Not precisely," he says. "You'd still be human."

"But … similar. I'd be similar to you."

"Yes." He shrugs. "It would be a simple matter of altering a few gene processes here and there. Changing tissue paper to teflon and such." He sounds like he's reciting a recipe for mixed drinks, and it's … surreal.

"Lucifer …. I don't …. I …." She shakes her head. "I'm not even sure how this makes me feel, let alone whether I want …." Immortality. As in living forever. As in never dying. As in … holy shit. The concept is a pinball in her brain. The flippers in her neck keep it bouncing around in her head, hitting bits and flotsam, and it won't settle.

He gives her a grave look. "I would never force it on you."

"I know that."

"Just … know that if you asked me … I would." He gifts her with a hesitant smile. "Gladly, I would."

"But you'd be giving up-"

"I wouldn't be giving anything up," he snaps. "Haven't you been listening? The feather would ultimately send me to Hell if I used it to fall. **That's** the long con. Dad was never trying to set me free. He just wants me to stuff myself back into his bloody box, and not realize what I've done until it's too late to fix."

"But you don't **know** -"

"No, I don't," Lucifer admits. He gives her contemplative look. "Tell me, would **you** risk it?"

"I …." She bites her lip. "No," she realizes, eyes widening. Not after all the celestial shenanigans she's witnessed the past few months. Michael is only as reliable of a narrator as God allows him to be. And God …? When she thinks about God, all she can bring to her mind's eye is Lucifer, crying in the bathroom, his whole side black from bruising, after God struck him down from Heaven. **Again**. Whatever else God may be, no matter what favors he may have done for Trixie, he is, without question, an abusive dick. "No, I … I wouldn't."

Lucifer smiles sadly. "And you're not built to refuse it, like I am. What does that tell you?"

Her eyes water. "But what about your free will?"

He sighs, kissing the top of her head. "If free will is even achievable for me, I'll not get it through the feather," he says. "Maybe, someday, some other solution will present itself to me - I'm not discarding the idea out of hand - but for now, I have to accept that there **is** no solution."

And Lucifer is nothing if not pragmatic.

Which leaves him with one desire.

One desire he does have a way to achieve.

Forever.

"I-I …," she says, tripping on her tongue. "I just …." She swallows. "Lucifer, I don't know how to respond to this."

"Of course, you don't," he says. "I've offered you immortality. Not a glass of wine."

She can't help but laugh at that, and he gives her a warm look that reaches his eyes, crinkling them around the edges. "How much …." She swallows. "How much t-time do I have to …?"

"To decide?" he prods.

She nods.

He steps away from the railing, turning at last to face her. "Unfortunately," he says, "I've a finite amount of divinity left to use. And pulling a soul back from the Silver City would be an enormous expenditure."

"But … before I die. I mean …."

"As long as you can still speak your mind to me," he tells her, cupping her face, his dark eyes searching hers, "you can still choose."

"Okay," she says, mind racing. "I … okay. So … you can't fix me if I'm dead, but you can fix me if I'm old."

He snorts with amusement.

Fuck. "Is that vain?" she says, heart racing. She swallows. "That's really vain."

"I'm the Devil, darling," he says, stroking her cheek. "Do you think I'd hold a little vanity against you?"

"No," she says, blushing. She sighs. "Sorry. S-sorry, I'm just trying to wrap my mind around …."

"It's quite all right," he says.

"I … I j-just …." Her voice stutters away into silence, until all she can hear is the breeze, and the distant traffic noises. The heat of his body next to her draws her closer, and she rests against him.

"Regardless of your choice," he says gently, peering down at her with affection, "you are my one desire. Fragile or not." He brushes a loose strand of hair out of her eyes. "And I'll not leave you unless my absence is your wish. You've my apologies if I've given you another impression."

"No, **I'm** sorry," she says, eyes leaking. "I gave you the wrong impression, too."

"It's … a bit of a learning process," he admits with a sheepish look. "Isn't it."

Holy mother of all understatements.

Nodding, she rubs her eyes and sniffs. "I don't want to you leave," she says to be definitive. "I want you to stay."

He regards her for a long moment, like he's committing every brushstroke of her face - every soft syllable she spoke - to memory. He still looks … surprised by her words. And a little bit in doubt. And a lot tickled pink. His mouth doesn't know whether it wants to be smiling or not, though he's definitely leaning in a happy direction as he turns things over in his head. And turns them. And turns them.

When he doesn't speak for what feels like eons, she prods, "Lucifer?"

The sound of his name seems to bring him back from Revelation, and he blinks. Her whole body is trembling as he wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. He presses his lips to hers, tasting like smoke, like peat, and he murmurs against her skin, "Then yes, Chloe, to answer your original question … we are 'okay.'"

* * *

They move like driftwood caught on the currents, changing course whenever they bump against a jutting rock. The sliding door handle sends them spinning back into his penthouse as he pulls her shirt over her head. His favorite chair diverts them toward the sofa as his robe cascades to the floor. A final collision with the coffee table brings them to the fireplace, where they finally succumb to the pull of gravity, and sink to the-

" **HOLY SHIT** ," she belts as her naked back hits marble, and she ricochets upright, returning to his arms.

Only to have him deposit her onto the floor again as he rolls into a defensive crouch above her. "What is it?" he says, looking left and right, like he expects an attack at any moment. "Bloody hell!"

She bites her lip. "It's … um." Blush creeps across her face and down her throat, and she can't help but cross her arms over her chest. "It's cold."

He looks down at her like she's grown antlers, and she finds herself babbling, "The marble, I mean. The floor. It's …." She swallows. "It's really cold."

And she kind of wants to crawl into said marble and die, now.

For a moment, he can only stare, frowning, like he isn't used to being yanked out of moments of passion for the sake of silly things like creature comforts. Then again, he probably isn't, what with the way he tends to rev up all the engines around him. He presses a palm flat to the floor by his bare feet. And then he snorts. And then he laughs - full on, outright - as he relaxes.

"I suppose that is a bit nippy, isn't it?" he says.

"A **bit**?" she says. "Aren't you the one who claims he isn't built for arctic temperatures?"

"Yes, well," he says with a sniff, looking sheepish, "let's fix that for the both of us. Shall we?"

He leans, reaching with a long, long arm, toward the footrest of his favorite chair. He clutches the black wool afghan that's folded there, and drags it gracefully to the floor with him. He spreads the blanket at her feet.

"Better?" he says, re-closing the gap between them.

"Yes."

"Good," he murmurs. He runs his fingertips along her bicep, stroking her with his thumb. He frowns. "Are you embarrassed?"

She lowers her arms. Her nipples are pert, and her heart is thumping in her ears. "Not anymore."

"Good," he repeats quietly.

They kiss. Soft. Searching. She can't help but tangle her fingers in the hair at the nape of his neck.

Then they crash together as desire builds.

And then there is no gap at all. Just his body touching hers - hers touching his - in a whorl of skin and sweat and heat. She rakes her fingers along his spine, and he growls, as they subside to the floor like a wave to shore, this time to the much gentler surface of his afghan. He whittles her world into a timeless space, sating his one desire - loving her - until she, too, has had her fill. It's one of the few times in her life that she allows herself to revel in gluttony.

"More," she says. Keeps saying. "Please, more."

Much to his apparent delight.

* * *

When she wakes from her postcoital doze, it's dark, and quiet. The crackling fire has died to embers, leaving just a touch of heat spreading over her hip, and along her free arm. With the fire nearly dead, only the setting moon and his feather light the penthouse. He lies beside her, shielding her from the chill of the massive room beyond. His breaths are thick and even, and his nose is pressed into the crook of her neck. Like her pulse point is his oxygen.

She strokes his arm, marveling at the warmth of his skin, at the sound of his breaths.

This man who is not man.

This archangel.

This Light Bringer.

That thought drags her gaze to the warm glow falling from the mantel. She can't see the feather from the floor, but in the darkness, she can see its light, which shimmers as though someone bottled a piece of starlight. Her heart aches, looking up at it. Lucifer's one remaining piece of his birthright divinity.

His one remaining piece, and he wants to give it to her, of all people.

He wants to give her immortality.

The concept is still a mess of conflicting emotions in her head. What would it mean for her? To live forever? To see Trixie die one day. And Trixie's children. And Trixie's children's children. Forever. Until the end of all time. Every person she knows and loves today would grow old and perish as she watches. All save one.

The archangel.

She presses closer. His stubble tickles her chin. He wraps his arm over her body, almost as if by reflex.

She kisses him.

"I can't choose right now," she tells him in the darkness. "I just …. Lucifer, I can't."

"I didn't expect you to," he rasps against her throat.

She swallows. "How long have you been awake?"

He mutters something unintelligible, but the words are thick with sleep, so she thinks his answer meant seconds, at best. He inhales, like he can't get enough of the scent of her. And then he settles.

"Can we just … be?" she says.

He twitches like she woke him. "Mmm?"

She clutches his hand in hers and traces the lifelines in his palm. At least, he seems to be healed, now. No more broken skin. "It's just … we've had so much drama the past couple of months," she says. "With your wings, and Michael being, well, Michael, and God being a dick, and you falling, and Trixie's Mars misadventure, and …." She sighs. "I just want some time without celestial plotting or life-and-death choices. I just want to be. For a little while. With you." She shifts so she can see his face. "Can we do that, Lucifer?"

He props his head on his elbow, looking at her in the darkness. The very last light of the fire gives his eyes a glow reminiscent of hellfire, but warmer. Not scary.

"Yes," he says. "If that's what you desire."

She traces patterns on his chest. "That means no more taking my pen away because it might hurt me. Or freaking about about cellphone radiation. Or-"

He shuts her up with a kiss that lasts and lasts, until she's seeing spots, until she has to force herself to pull away and say, "Mmm, no. Stop." She licks her lips. She can't help it. "No avoiding this."

"Darling-"

"I'm mortal," she tells him, pressing her fingers to his mouth before he can speak beyond terms of endearment. His skin is soft. And warm. She strokes her thumb along the sharp edge of his jawline, her affection overflowing. "That's just …." She takes a breath, resolved. "That's just something you're going to have to get used to. For now, at least."

"Chalk it up to momentary insanity," he murmurs against her fingertips. "You have my apolo-"

"Lucifer, stop," she says gently.

And he stops.

"You had a panic attack," she says, shifting closer, and closer still. "That's rooted in way more than just momentary insanity. You have a real, deep-seated issue, and we need to deal with that."

He regards her for a long moment, expression hooded. "I … know," he says softly, troubled. "I've …." He sighs. "I've ... made an appointment with Dr. Linda."

Chloe frowns. "I thought she was on a sabbatical."

"She called me yesterday while I was dealing with the wine broker," he replies with a shrug. "I must say, her timing was impeccable."

Chloe wonders if her discussion with Linda two nights before had anything to do with the call Lucifer received. Or, well, there's probably not much to wonder. Linda is Linda. Chloe makes a mental note to thank her friend profusely at the next meeting of the tribe.

"So … we can do that for a while?" she says. "Just be? That's all right with you?"

He nods. "You have my word. And my word is-"

"Your bond," she finishes for him. "I know." She frowns as those words resonate strangely. "You promised I'd get Trixie back."

"… I did," he admits slowly.

She cups his face. "Lucifer … what exactly were you going to do to guarantee that?"

His gaze wanders up to the soft starlight glow emanating from atop the mantel, and then back to her. She swallows when she realizes what he'd been thinking when he'd made that promise. What he'd been willing to throw away. His happiness for hers. A lump forms in her throat. Her heart constricts. And she can't think of what to say to that.

She can't think of anything except, "I love you."

A contented sigh racks his frame. He presses his forehead to hers. Their noses mash. "And I you," he replies - another red beryl to add to her slowly growing treasure trove.

In that moment, they are.

It's what she wants, and what he gives her without conditions or _quid pro quo_.

They are.

Basking in the afterglow.

~ _finis_ ~


End file.
